Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ454GARQ7DNGQBTNANVA9

The dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the alley where Molly and Bill huddled over a crumpled party invitation. Molly tapped the paper with a chipped nail, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. "So, *Little Timmy’s Fifth Birthday Extravaganza*," she read. "You ever seen a kid named Timmy who *wasn’t* spoiled rotten? This is like shooting fish in a barrel, Bill. A barrel full of *unopened LEGO sets*." Bill adjusted his too-tight polo shirt, the one with the embroidered whale that read *Dad of the Year*—stolen from a thrift store last Tuesday. "I dunno, Mol. Kids’ parties got layers. You got the parents, the clown—" "*The clown?*" Molly’s eyes lit up. "Oh, we’re *definitely* using the clown." Bill groaned. "Last time we used a clown, you *became* the clown, and we ended up in a chase with a mime. A *mime*, Molly. They don’t even *talk*." "Exactly! Silent partners are *underrated*." She tossed the invitation at him. "Look, the party’s at the McMansion on Maple Drive. Security’s gonna be a mom with a wine glass and a dad who thinks he’s in a cop show because he bought a dashcam. We waltz in, blend with the chaos, and walk out with enough loot to buy that tiki bar in Belize." Bill squinted. "The one with the ‘no questions asked’ policy?" "The *very* one." Molly pulled a party hat from her pocket and plopped it on her head. "I’ll go in as *Aunt Linda*—you know, the one who’s *always* a little too huggy. You be *Cousin Dave*, the guy who ‘just got back from rehab’ and keeps ‘accidentally’ pocketing the silverware." Bill sighed. "I don’t wanna be the sad cousin again. Last time, a kid asked if I was gonna *die*." "That’s because you *cried* into the guacamole." "I was *method acting*!" Molly ignored him, counting on her fingers. "Phase one: We arrive fashionably late, when the sugar rush is peaking and the parents are too drunk to notice their own names. Phase two: You ‘spill’ punch on the gift table—" "*I* spill it? Why do *I* always spill things?" "Because you’ve got *spiller’s hands*, Bill. It’s a gift." She mimed a dramatic trip. "While you’re mopping up with your *sad cousin tears*, I’m swapping the good presents for the ones we *pre-wrapped*—" Bill gasped. "*The rocks?*" "*The rocks.* A five-pound bag of river stones, wrapped in *birthday paper*. By the time little Timmy gets to ‘Aunt Linda’s’ gift, we’re halfway to Mexico, and he’s got a *geology lesson*." Bill rubbed his temples. "What if someone *opens* one early?" Molly pulled a glitter bomb from her jacket. "Then we activate *Plan B*." Bill’s eye twitched. "There’s a *Plan B*?" "Always." She grinned. "We scream *‘PIÑATA TIME!’* and let the chaos handle the rest." Bill stared at her. "You’re a monster." Molly clapped him on the back. "And you’re my *getaway driver*. Now, you got the clown suit or not?" Bill reached into his duffel and pulled out a neon-green wig. "I got the wig. And the *tiny bicycle*." Molly’s smile turned downright *feral*. "Bill, my friend, we are about to give Timmy the *worst* birthday of his life."