Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPK6YA9CRA90TYRT5JQNNJ

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, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the chipped wood. Bill, meanwhile, was hunched over a crumpled napkin, scribbling what he insisted was a "foolproof plan" with a crayon he’d swiped from the bar’s kids’ menu. "You’re telling me," Molly said, squinting at the napkin, "that our grand strategy involves dressing up like 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 wolves." Molly groaned. "I hate clowns. They’re just adults who gave up on life and decided to weaponize balloons." "Exactly!" Bill jabbed the crayon at her. "No one suspects a clown. We’ll be invisible. Like ghosts, but with more face paint." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "We’re not ghosts, Bill. We’re two grown adults about to commit felony theft at a six-year-old’s birthday party. Do you even know how to make balloon animals?" Bill waved a hand. "How hard can it be? You twist, you tie, you pray it doesn’t explode in your face. Besides, we’re not there to entertain. We’re there to *liberate* those presents." Molly sighed. "Liberate. Right. Because nothing says ‘Robin Hood’ like stealing a bunch of Paw Patrol action figures and a My Little Pony with half its hair chewed off." Bill finally looked up, his eyes gleaming. "You’re missing the big picture. This isn’t just about the loot. It’s about the *art* of the heist. The misdirection. The sheer audacity of walking into a room full of sugar-high toddlers and walking out with a sack full of toys." Molly crossed her arms. "And what happens when little Timmy starts crying because his favorite stuffed dinosaur is missing?" Bill grinned. "Then we tell him it’s on a *very important mission* and will be back in a few days. Kids believe anything." Molly shook her head. "You’re a monster." "Thank you." Bill capped the crayon and slid the napkin toward her. "Now, here’s the plan. We arrive early, scope out the gift table, and—" "Wait, wait, wait." Molly held up a hand. "You said ‘we.’ You do realize I’m not actually a clown, right? I don’t even own a red nose." Bill reached into his pocket and tossed her a small, squishy ball. "Now you do." Molly caught it and immediately regretted it. "This is a stress ball." "Same difference. Just shove it up your nose if anyone asks." Molly stared at him. "You’re enjoying this way too much." Bill leaned back, smug. "I live for the chaos, Molly. And tonight? Tonight, we *become* the chaos." Molly tossed the stress ball back at him. "Fine. But if I get arrested, I’m telling the cops you made me do it." Bill grinned. "Deal. Now, let’s go over the escape route. I was thinking we could—" "Oh, for the love of—" Molly groaned. "We haven’t even gotten in yet, and you’re already planning how to get out?" Bill shrugged. "Always have an exit strategy. Rule number one of thievery." Molly rubbed her temples. "Remind me again why I agreed to this?" "Because," Bill said, patting her shoulder, "you love me. And also because you owe me twenty bucks from that poker game last month." Molly opened her mouth, then closed it. "Damn it."