Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPJ51AJ9EWXV3HB4WX7C21

The back room of the Tipsy Turtle pub smelled like stale beer and regret, which was fitting, since that’s exactly what Molly and Bill were serving up tonight. Molly leaned against the sticky table, spinning a butter knife between her fingers like it was a lockpick. Bill, meanwhile, was hunched over a crumpled napkin, scribbling what he swore was a "foolproof plan" but looked more like a toddler’s finger-painting. "You’re telling me," Molly said, eyeing the napkin, "that our grand strategy involves dressing up as clowns?" Bill didn’t look up. "Not just clowns. *Beloved* clowns. The kind kids trust. The kind parents hire to make their spawn forget they’re being raised by screens and sugar." Molly sighed. "I hate clowns. They’re just adults in face paint who’ve given up on dignity." "Exactly! It’s perfect. No one suspects the guy who’s already lost his soul." Bill finally met her gaze, his eyes alight with the kind of misplaced confidence that usually preceded disaster. "We roll in, we distract, we grab the loot. Easy." Molly flicked the butter knife. It clattered against a half-empty pint glass. "And how, pray tell, do we distract a room full of children? Juggle? Balloon animals? Because I draw the line at making a giraffe out of latex." Bill grinned. "Better. We tell them there’s a *piñata* in the back." Molly blinked. "That’s… actually not terrible." "See? I *do* have good ideas." Bill tapped the napkin. "We say it’s a *magic* piñata. One that only appears if they all close their eyes and count to ten. Then—bam—we’re out the back door with the presents before they even finish screaming ‘ten!’" Molly considered this. "And what if some kid *doesn’t* close their eyes? What if little Timmy McTrustissues over there peeks?" Bill waved a hand. "Then we improvise. I’ll trip over my own giant shoes, you’ll honk the horn on your nose, and we’ll make a run for it. Classic clown chaos." Molly groaned. "I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this." "Because you love me," Bill said, batting his eyelashes. "Because I love *money*," Molly corrected. "And because if we pull this off, we can finally afford to rob a place that doesn’t smell like juice boxes and despair." Bill clapped his hands. "Then it’s settled! Tomorrow, we become the most terrifying thing a child can imagine: *fun*." Molly picked up the butter knife again. "I swear to God, Bill, if I end up in jail because of a five-year-old’s birthday party, I’m taking you down with me." Bill grinned. "Wouldn’t have it any other way, partner." He raised his pint. "To the heist of the century." Molly clinked her glass against his. "To not getting caught by a mob of sugar-crazed kindergarteners." Outside, the pub’s neon sign buzzed and flickered, as if even it knew this was a terrible idea.