Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPZHMA4M22FHSSPBT89EEB

The dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the alley where Molly and Bill huddled over a crumpled party invitation. Molly adjusted her oversized Santa hat, the pom-pom bobbing like a metronome counting down to disaster. “Alright, let’s run this one more time,” Molly said, tapping the invitation. “We’re crashing the Johnson twins’ eighth birthday party, dressed as—” “A clown and a magician,” Bill interrupted, tugging at the neon-green wig perched unevenly on his head. “Because nothing says ‘trust me’ like a guy who can pull rabbits out of his sleeves and another guy who looks like he just escaped from a haunted carnival.” Molly ignored him. “We blend in, we charm the parents, we ‘accidentally’ knock over the present table, and while everyone’s distracted by the chaos—” “—we grab the loot and bolt,” Bill finished, snapping his fingers. “Classic. Elegant. Almost *too* simple.” “Almost?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You got a better idea, or are you just nervous because the last time you wore face paint, you cried when the mirror didn’t cry back?” Bill scowled. “I was *three*. And for the record, I’m not nervous. I’m just saying, have you *seen* the security at these suburban shindigs? Moms with eagle eyes, dads who think they’re in a Jason Statham movie, and at least one kid who’s definitely a narc.” Molly waved a hand. “Please. The only security is a guy in a rented Elmo costume who’s high on candy and existential dread. We’ll be fine.” Bill adjusted his fake mustache, which was already peeling at the edges. “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m telling the cops this was all your idea. And that you have a *very* suspicious interest in piñatas.” Molly grinned. “Noted. Now, remember—you’re the magician, so you’ve got to sell the act. Wave your hands, mutter some nonsense, maybe set something on fire if things get dicey.” “Set something on—? Molly, we’re in a *house*.” “Relax, it’ll be fine. Just a *small* fire. For ambiance.” Bill groaned. “You know what? Forget the presents. I’m stealing the cake. I deserve it after this.” Molly clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s go make some kids’ birthdays *unforgettable*.” Bill took a deep breath, straightened his bowtie, and muttered, “I hate my life.” Molly linked her arm through his. “No, you don’t. You love the thrill. The danger. The sheer audacity of robbing eight-year-olds blind.” “You’re right,” Bill sighed. “I *do* love the audacity. But if I have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ one more time, I *will* burn this place down.” Molly beamed. “Now *that’s* teamwork.” She adjusted her fake nose and nodded toward the house, where the distant sound of children shrieking over sugar and games filled the air. “Showtime, partner.” Bill took one last look at the invitation, then at Molly. “You’re sure the presents are worth it?” Molly smirked. “Oh, absolutely. Rumor has it one of the gifts is a *limited edition* glow-in-the-dark fart machine.” Bill’s eyes lit up. “We’re *definitely* doing this.”