Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQK3F4A60ZV4DKRXPJ4669

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. "I don’t do kids, Bill. Last time I was around one, I ended up with glitter in places glitter should never be." "Exactly! That’s why this is perfect. No one suspects the clown." He finally glanced up, grinning. "We waltz in, distract the little monsters with balloon animals, and while they’re busy trying to strangle each other with poodles made of latex, we scoop up the loot and vanish into the night." Molly sank the eight ball with a sharp *crack*. "And what happens when one of them starts crying because you made a balloon sword instead of a balloon unicorn?" Bill waved a hand. "Kids cry. It’s their default setting. Parents will just assume we’re bad at our jobs, not that we’re stealing their toasters and gift cards." Molly set down her cue. "Gift cards? That’s what we’re risking prison for?" "Gift cards are *liquid gold*, Mol. No serial numbers, no tracking, just pure, spendable guilt money from Aunt Karen who forgot to wrap the actual present." He tapped the napkin. "Plus, there’s a PS5 in there. Maybe two." Molly groaned. "Fine. But if I have to wear a red nose, you’re buying me a drink afterward that costs more than the haul." Bill clapped his hands. "Deal. Now, let’s talk logistics. We’ll need wigs. Big, ridiculous wigs. And those shoes—" "Absolutely not." "—the ones that squeak when you walk." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "I’d rather go in barefoot." "Suit yourself. But if you’re not squeaking, you’re not committing." He leaned in. "Also, we’ll need a distraction. Something big. Something that’ll make the parents *really* regret hiring us." Molly raised an eyebrow. "Like what?" Bill’s grin turned wicked. "Ever seen a clown piñata?" Molly stared at him. "You’re a monster." "Thank you." He grabbed a fresh napkin. "Now, let’s workshop the escape route. I’m thinking we hide the presents in a giant inflatable bouncy castle—" Molly cut him off. "No." "—and then just *walk out* while everyone’s busy watching their kids break their arms." Molly sighed, rubbing her temples. "I hate my life." Bill patted her shoulder. "No, you don’t. You love the thrill. The chaos. The sheer, unadulterated *audacity* of it all." Molly grabbed her jacket. "I love the part where we don’t get caught." Bill stood, tucking the napkin into his pocket. "Then let’s go steal some presents."