Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7NXB453064YWG5HVQDPMT

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a crumpled map of the suburban neighborhood spread out like a battlefield. Bill paced behind her, fidgeting with a half-eaten donut, crumbs dusting his rumpled shirt. The target: a lavish birthday bash for some rich kid turning six, loaded with presents from oblivious guests. "Okay, Bill, listen up," Molly said, tapping the map with a greasy finger. "The party's at the McMansion on Elm Street, starts at noon. We'll hit during the cake-cutting chaos. Kids screaming, parents distracted—perfect cover." Bill stopped pacing, his eyes lighting up like a kid spotting candy. "Cake-cutting? Genius! So we dress as, what, piñata repairmen? I could swing a stick around, knock out a few squealers if they get too close." Molly rolled her eyes. "No swinging sticks, you idiot. We're going in as party clowns. I found these outfits at the thrift store—red noses, floppy shoes, the works. You'll be 'Captain Chuckles,' I'll be 'Jolly Judy.' We mingle, distract with balloon animals, then stuff the gifts into oversized prop bags." "Balloon animals?" Bill chuckled, inflating his cheeks mockingly. "I can do a mean dachshund. But what if the birthday brat wants one? Or worse, cries when we don't give him the real pony he probably asked for?" "Improvise," Molly snapped, sketching a quick layout. "The present table's in the backyard tent. We 'entertain' for ten minutes, then boom—sweep the haul. Toys, games, that shiny bike—fence 'em for quick cash. No violence, just sleight of hand." Bill leaned in, squinting at the map. "Sleight of hand? With floppy shoes? I'll trip over my own feet! Remember that jewelry gig? I knocked over the whole display case yelling 'Abracadabra!'" "Exactly why you're on decoy duty," Molly said, smirking. "Waddle around making dumb jokes. 'Why did the balloon go to school? To get inflated!' Keep the rugrats laughing while I load up. Parents won't suspect clowns of grand theft preschool." He grinned, rubbing his chin. "Alright, but escape plan? Backyard gate leads to the alley—we rabbit with the swag in a fake ice cream cart. I saw one online, cheap. Honk the horn, yell 'Free cones!' and vanish." Molly nodded, folding the map. "Smart for once. Timer on your watch—five minutes in the tent, then signal me with a whoopee cushion fart. If cops show, we split: you take the kids' faces with pie, I grab the goods." "Pie in the face? Now that's comedy gold!" Bill laughed, slapping the table. "This'll be our best score yet. Stealing from snot-nosed brats? Poetic justice for all the times we got nothing but coal." "Focus, Bill," Molly warned, standing up. "Rehearse the routine tonight. One slip, and we're the punchline in orange jumpsuits." Bill saluted sloppily. "Aye aye, Captain! To the heist of the century—may the presents be merry and bright!" As they clinked coffee mugs like champagne flutes, Molly couldn't help but smile. In their line of work, laughter was the best disguise.