Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5YT273VNV9BGYM5JYJ34N

The dim glow of a single bulb flickered above the rusted kitchen table where Molly and Bill huddled over a hastily drawn floorplan. Empty coffee cups and half-eaten donuts littered the surface between them. Molly tapped the paper with a chipped fingernail, her brows furrowed. "You’re telling me the only way in is through the *bounce house*?" Bill squinted at the diagram. "That’s gotta be the dumbest plan we’ve ever had." Molly smirked. "No, the dumbest plan was when you tried to rob a pet store and got chased out by a parrot." "It *mocked me*, Molly. Traumatizing." Bill crossed his arms. "But this? Kids’ parties are like military operations. Helicopter parents, sugar-crazed toddlers—it’s a warzone." "Exactly." Molly leaned in. "No one expects thieves at a six-year-old’s birthday. We show up in clown costumes, blend in, and—" "—get stuck inflating the bounce house for two hours while Karen from accounting micromanages the juice boxes. No thanks." Molly rolled her eyes. "Fine. Plan B: The piñata." Bill perked up. "Now we’re talking. Smash and grab?" "Better." She grinned. "We *become* the piñata." Bill stared. "... You wanna *wear* the piñata." "Think about it," Molly said, thrusting a hand into her backpack. She pulled out a giant, glittery donkey head. "We sneak in as the entertainment. Kids whack us with sticks, we ‘accidentally’ burst open, and while everyone scrambles for candy—" "—we nab the presents and vanish like ninjas." Bill scratched his chin. "I like it. But what if the kids whack too hard?" "Wear a cup." "Fair." Bill sighed, then frowned. "Wait. How do we carry the loot? Piñatas don’t have pockets." Molly tossed him a fanny pack. "Stash it in here. We’ll duct tape it inside the piñata." Bill eyed the pack. "This is the least cool thing I’ve ever worn." "You robbed a geriatric bingo night dressed as a nurse. Your coolness hit rock bottom years ago." "Low blow." Bill snapped the fanny pack around his waist. "Alright, clown or donkey—either way, we’re committing felonies in festive attire. What’s the exit strategy?" Molly pointed to the back of the diagram. "After the ‘accident,’ we ditch the costumes in the bounce house, slip out the side gate, and meet at the getaway car—which, by the way, is a minivan with ‘Soccer Mom’ stickers." Bill groaned. "We’re gonna die uncool and covered in glitter, aren’t we?" Molly clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the big leagues, Billy." He sighed, resigned. "Just promise me one thing." "What?" "If we get caught, we tell the cops our names are Santa’s Elves." Molly grinned. "Deal."