Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPR02SZPH5MTEBG8BRSD9D

The backroom of *The Tipsy Clown* bar smelled like stale popcorn and regret. Molly slouched in a booth, spinning a half-empty glass of something that might’ve been whiskey once, while Bill paced in front of a napkin sketch of a bounce house labeled *TARGET: GOLD MINE (LITERALLY).* “Alright, let’s run it again,” Molly said, tapping her glass. “We’re hitting a six-year-old’s birthday party.” “A *rich* six-year-old’s birthday party,” Bill corrected, jabbing a finger at the napkin. “Little Timmy Whitmore III. His dad’s that tech guy who invented the app that makes your toaster judge you.” “Right, *ToastShame*. So we’re stealing from a kid whose dad profits off guilt. Poetic.” Molly smirked. “But we’re still stealing from a kid.” Bill waved a hand. “Technically, we’re stealing from *parents*. Rich parents who buy their kids solid gold LEGO sets. You saw the invite—‘No gifts under $500.’ This is a *charity* heist.” Molly snorted. “Since when do we care about charity?” “Since the charity is *us*.” Bill leaned in. “Look, the presents are in the ‘gift room’—which is just the guest bedroom with a sign taped to the door. We go in through the back, swap the good stuff with the decoy presents we bought at the dollar store, and slip out before the cake’s even cut.” Molly squinted. “Decoy presents?” Bill grinned and pulled a crumpled shopping bag onto the table. “Behold.” He yanked out a plastic fire truck with a missing wheel. “‘To Timmy, Love Aunt Carol.’ Classy, right? And this”—he held up a coloring book titled *My First Tax Evasion*—“is from ‘Uncle Bob.’ Who, by the way, does not exist.” Molly picked up the coloring book. “You wrote ‘May your offshore accounts be as vibrant as these crayons’ inside.” “Subtlety is key.” Bill tucked the toys back in the bag. “Now, the bounce house is our alibi. We ‘accidentally’ knock over the punch bowl—” “With *style*,” Molly interrupted. “I’m thinking a dramatic slip, maybe a scream, something that gets all the moms clutching their pearls.” “Right, *with style*. While you’re causing a scene, I swap the presents. Then we ‘help clean up’ by carrying out the ‘ruined’ gifts—aka the real loot—and vanish into the sunset.” Molly drummed her fingers. “What’s our exit?” “Minivan. Stolen. Full of car seats and Cheerios for camouflage.” “You stole a *minivan*?” “Borrowed! From a very trusting soccer mom at the grocery store.” Bill adjusted his clip-on tie. “I told her I was a valet. She gave me five bucks.” Molly sighed. “We’re really doing this.” “We’re really doing this.” Bill clapped his hands. “Now, final question: Do we wear the clown masks or the ninja ones?” Molly considered. “Clowns. If we get caught, we can say we were hired entertainment.” Bill snapped his fingers. “Genius. Nothing says ‘innocent’ like a grown man in a rainbow wig sobbing into a confiscated whoopee cushion.” Molly downed the rest of her drink. “Alright, partner. Let’s go ruin a child’s life.” Bill raised an imaginary glass. “To crime. The gift that keeps on giving.”