Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7M76RP1V0YB8QR3M4F6P8

Molly hunched over the greasy diner table, her fingers tracing the edges of a pilfered pink invitation glittering with cartoon unicorns. Bill slouched across from her, nursing a coffee that smelled like regret, his eyes darting suspiciously at the family in the next booth—mom, dad, and two sticky-fingered toddlers demolishing pancakes. "Bill, feast your peepers on this goldmine," Molly whispered, slapping the invite down. "Little Timmy Vanderbilt's eighth birthday extravaganza. Backyard bash at that McMansion on Elm Street. Presents stacked like a Lego fortress—Xboxen, bikes, that new drone every kid's yapping about. We're talking five-figure resale, easy." Bill squinted, adjusting his crooked bifocals. "A kids' party? Molly, you're cracked. Piñatas swinging like wrecking balls, clowns with squirting flowers, and a horde of sugar-rushed ankle-biters. One tantrum and we're busted faster than a piñata at a donkey show." Molly grinned, her lipstick-smeared teeth flashing. "That's the beauty, genius. Chaos is our cover. We go in as entertainers. I've got the outfits: you as Captain Candybeard, me as Princess Bubblegum. Hand out treats laced with sleepy-time herbs—nothing lethal, just a nap for the rugrats." Bill choked on his coffee. "Sleepy herbs? What are we, the Tooth Fairy on roofies? And the parents? Helicopter moms with iPhones filming every burp?" "Distraction detail," Molly shot back, sketching a crude map on a napkin. "I rig the bounce house to deflate mid-jump—kids pile in, parents panic. You slip to the gift table, stuff the swag in these bad boys." She pulled two oversized clown shoes from her bag, hollowed out like loot sacks. "Velcro flaps for quick grabs. Out the side gate to the van disguised as the catering truck. Boom—presents pawned by midnight." Bill rubbed his stubbled chin, warming to it despite himself. "Okay, but the cake? Those things are booby-trapped with fondant and tears. And what if Timmy's got a pet tiger or something? Rich kids are weird." Molly cackled, pounding the table so forks rattled. "Tiger? Please. It's a goldfish named Bubbles. We'll liberate it too—sell it to a pet shop. Timing's key: hit at 3 PM, peak present-opening frenzy. You create the diversion—fake a pratfall into the punch bowl. I grab and dash." "Fine," Bill grumbled, folding the napkin map. "But if a clown car full of cops shows, I'm blaming your bubblegum wig. This heist better net us more than therapy bills." Molly winked, stuffing the invite into her cleavage. "Trust me, Bill. By tonight, we'll be toasting with champagne from the goodie bags. Kids'll think Santa came early—and left with everything." Outside, the sun mocked their scheming with innocent blue skies, while across the street, balloons bobbed toward Elm Street, heralding the sugary doom ahead. Bill sighed, already picturing the headlines: "Party Poopers Pilfer Presents—Clowns Nabbed in Candy Caper." But hey, laughs were free; the loot wasn't.