Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ6REJY593BSRBYXYACZ74

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 pool table, chalking her cue with the kind of focus usually reserved for brain surgeons or people defusing bombs. Bill, meanwhile, was hunched over a crumpled napkin, scribbling what he insisted was a "foolproof plan" but looked more like a toddler’s first attempt at hieroglyphics. "You’re telling me," Molly said, eyeing 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 sighed, lining up her shot. The cue ball cracked against the eight, sending it ricocheting off three rails before sinking into the corner pocket. "I don’t do kids, Bill. They’re like tiny, sticky landmines. One wrong move and they start screaming, and then you’ve got a room full of parents who suddenly remember they have opposable thumbs and a deep-seated hatred for thieves." Bill finally looked up, his expression wounded. "You’re telling me you’ve never stolen from a child before?" Molly paused. "Okay, fine. That one time at the county fair, I may have lifted a stuffed unicorn from a crying toddler. But in my defense, it was *right there*, and she was drooling on it." Bill pointed at her with the chewed end of his pen. "Exactly! You’ve got the instincts. This is just scaling up. Instead of one unicorn, we’re talking *dozens* of presents. Action figures, LEGO sets, that one kid’s got a *Nintendo Switch*—" Molly’s cue slipped, sending the ball careening into the side pocket. "A *Switch*? Why didn’t you lead with that?" Bill grinned. "Because I knew you’d see reason. Now, here’s the plan: we show up early, before the party starts. I’ll distract the parents with balloon animals—" Molly snorted. "You can’t make balloon animals." "I *can* make a balloon *dog*," Bill said defensively. "It’s lopsided, but it’s a dog. Mostly." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is already a disaster." "Hear me out! While I’m twisting balloons into sad, misshapen creatures, you slip into the gift pile. We’ve got, what, twenty minutes before the kids notice their presents are gone? Plenty of time to make our escape." Molly stared at him. "Twenty minutes? Bill, kids notice *everything*. You ever seen a five-year-old lose a sock? It’s like the apocalypse. They will *know*." Bill waved a hand. "Pfft. They’ll be too busy eating cake and screaming about pin the tail on the donkey. By the time they realize, we’ll be long gone, sipping martinis with our ill-gotten gains." Molly considered this, then shook her head. "No. No clown suits. No balloon animals. We do this *my* way." Bill groaned. "Oh, here we go. What’s your brilliant plan, then?" Molly leaned in, lowering her voice. "We don’t steal the presents. We steal the *kids*." Bill blinked. "Come again?" Molly grinned. "We take the birthday kid. Hold him for ransom. Parents pay up, we return the kid, and we walk away with *all* the presents *and* the ransom money. It’s a two-for-one." Bill opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "That’s… actually not terrible." Molly clapped him on the shoulder. "I know. Now, first step: we need a van." Bill paled. "A *van*? Molly, we’re thieves, not *monsters*." Molly rolled her eyes. "Relax, it’s a *white* van. Very non-threatening. We’ll even put a magnet on the side that says *‘Free Puppies.’*" Bill groaned, rubbing his temples. "I miss the days when our biggest problem was stealing a safe full of diamonds." Molly grinned. "Where’s the fun in that?" She tossed her cue onto the table. "Come on. Let’s go rent a van before I change my mind and decide this is a terrible idea." Bill sighed, following her toward the door. "Too late. I already know it’s a terrible idea. I’m just along for the ride."