Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPGT8PKYS1KAF5YWQA6EDT

The neon glow of the *Dizzy Dinosaur Bounce House Emporium* flickered through the miniblinds of Molly’s beat-up sedan, casting jagged stripes of purple and green across Bill’s face as he squinted at the blueprint spread over his lap. It wasn’t a *real* blueprint—just a napkin sketch of the party venue, complete with stick-figure kids, a suspiciously lopsided piñata, and a big red X over the gift table. “You’re telling me,” Bill said, jabbing a finger at the X, “that the *entire* security system for this place is a guy in a mascot costume who can’t see past his own foam snout?” Molly adjusted the rearview mirror to check her smudged eyeliner. “Trixie the T-Rex? Yeah. And she’s got a weak ankle. Saw her limp during the ‘YMCA’ last week.” Bill exhaled through his nose, a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion. “So our biggest obstacle is a dinosaur with a sprain and a room full of sugar-crazed five-year-olds.” “Six-year-olds,” Molly corrected. “It’s a *big* difference. Six-year-olds have *strategy*. They’ve mastered the art of the fake cry. You ever tried to outmaneuver a kid who’s faking a broken arm for an extra cupcake? That’s next-level deception.” Bill rubbed his temples. “I miss the days when we robbed banks. Banks have *vaults*. Vaults have *codes*. Codes are *predictable*. Kids? Kids are *chaos*.” Molly grinned, tossing a handful of gummi bears into her mouth. “That’s why it’s perfect. No one suspects the clown with the balloon animals is actually casing the joint. No one questions the face painter who’s *also* fingerprinting the gift wrap.” Bill groaned. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we? We’re stealing from *babies*.” “Technically, we’re stealing from *parents* who overcompensate with $200 LEGO sets.” Molly pulled a glittery party hat from her pocket and plopped it on his head. “Besides, think of it as *redistribution*. Those kids don’t *need* twelve My Little Ponies. They’ve got *imaginations*.” Bill adjusted the hat with a scowl. “I don’t want to know how you got invited to this thing.” Molly winked. “Let’s just say Mrs. Henderson from the PTA *really* believes in second chances after that whole ‘misunderstanding’ with the bake sale funds.” A sudden *honking* noise erupted from the venue as a cluster of kids blew into those obnoxious curly party horns. Bill jumped, nearly knocking over the napkin. “What’s our play?” Molly ticked off the steps on her fingers. “Phase one: I go in as ‘Aunt Molly,’ the world’s most enthusiastic party helper. You’re my ‘nephew,’ Billy, who’s *very* shy but *excellent* at carrying heavy boxes. Phase two: We ‘accidentally’ mix up the presents with the decorations. Phase three: We load the ‘decorations’ into the van. Phase four: Profit.” Bill stared. “That’s it?” “Well, phase *three-and-a-half* is avoiding the glue stick incident of ’19.” “What glue stick incident?” Molly’s smile turned razor-thin. “Let’s just say you do *not* want to know what happens when a kid superglues your shoe to the floor mid-heist.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate my life.” Molly clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up! If we pull this off, we’ll finally have enough to retire. Or at least buy a piñata that *isn’t* full of coupons for dental checkups.” Bill sighed, adjusting the party hat. “Fine. But if I have to sing ‘Baby Shark,’ I’m turning myself in.”