Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7KCHHV3378X9MGHP38D2R

Molly hunched over the greasy diner table, her eyes gleaming under the flickering neon sign. Bill slouched across from her, nursing a lukewarm coffee, his face half-hidden by a newspaper clipping of the party invite. The air smelled of burnt fries and desperation. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly whispered, tapping the photo of a sprawling backyard bash. "Rich kid's birthday tomorrow. Streamers, cake, and a mountain of presents from every trust-fund uncle in the county. We're talking designer bikes, gaming consoles, enough loot to fence for a year's rent." Bill leaned in, his mustache twitching. "Stealing from kids? That's low, even for us. What if they cry? I hate crying. Remember that pawn shop job? The owner's kid wailed for an hour." Molly snorted, waving him off. "No kids get hurt. We hit during the piñata chaos. You dress as the clown—they hired one, see? Red nose, floppy shoes. I'll be the face painter, blending right in with the soccer moms." "A clown? Me?" Bill's voice cracked. "Molly, I got a phobia. Last circus, I punched a mime. What if some snot-nosed brat pulls my wig off?" She grinned, sketching a crude map on a napkin. "That's the beauty. Distraction central. While the rugrats are whacking candy out of that donkey thing, you scoop the gift table. I've got the van parked two blocks away, disguised as a birthday delivery truck. In and out in ten minutes." Bill rubbed his chin, eyeing the plan. "Presents'll be wrapped. We can't unwrap 'em all—too noisy. And what about the parents? Those helicopter types with iPhones everywhere?" "Easy. We swap 'em," Molly said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "I rig a decoy bag of junk—old toys from that thrift store dumpster dive. You grab the real haul in your oversized clown pockets. Parents too busy snapping pics to notice till morning." He chuckled, but it turned nervous. "Clown pockets? What if I trip on the balloons? Or the dog—invites say family pet included. Labs love red noses." Molly slapped the table, making the salt shaker jump. "Then you juggle, idiot! Entertain the mutt. Look, the party's at 2 p.m., peak naptime for the littlest ones. We case it from the alley first—binoculars, not that you need 'em with your hawk eyes for burrito stands." Bill sighed, folding the napkin into a lopsided hat. "Fine, but if I end up in a bouncy castle chase, you're buying the beers. And no singing 'Happy Birthday'—I sound like a cat in a blender." "Deal," she said, eyes sparkling. "This'll be our masterpiece. From party poopers to payday pros." As the waitress refilled their cups, Bill muttered, "Just hope the cake's not poisoned with kid cooties." Molly laughed. "Only thing poisonous is your sense of humor, partner. Let's rehearse the wiggle—clowns gotta waddle." Bill groaned, but stood, mimicking a ridiculous shuffle. "Toot-toot, incoming loot!"