Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7RJNTDAGEMRG39Z6AW9WF

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a half-eaten pizza slice dangling from her fingers. The map of the suburban neighborhood was spread out like a battlefield, marked with crayon scribbles—ironic, given the target. Bill paced behind her, his lanky frame casting jittery shadows under the flickering bulb. He adjusted his fake mustache, which kept slipping. "Alright, Bill, spill it," Molly said, tapping the map with a greasy finger. "Why a kids' party? We're pros—art galleries, jewelers. Not some clown-infested birthday bash." Bill stopped pacing, grinning like he'd cracked the code to Fort Knox. "Think about it, Mol. No security. Parents too busy snapping pics and force-feeding cake. Presents piled high—Xbox, bikes, the works. Easy grab, melt into the chaos. We're ghosts in balloon land." She snorted, wiping sauce from her chin. "Ghosts? With what disguise? You gonna wear a tutu?" "Better," he said, pulling a duffel from under the table. Inside: oversized elf costumes, complete with floppy hats and jingly bells. "Santa's helpers gone rogue. We crash as entertainers. I do a magic trick—poof, presents vanish into my sack." Molly's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Magic? Last time you 'magicked' something, we almost got pinched for that slot machine fiasco. And the kids? Little terrors with sticky hands and zero chill. One scream, and it's game over." Bill waved her off, slipping on the elf hat. It sagged over his ears. "Distraction's key. You handle the diversion—spill the punch bowl, start a piñata riot. I'll sweep the gift table. In and out in ten. Load the van with the haul, fence it downtown. We're talking five figures, easy. Beats another dry run on that pawn shop." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Risks? Cops love kid stuff. 'Thieves ruin birthday!' Front-page sob story." "Low risk, high reward," Bill countered, striking a pose. "Elf ears cover the tats. Fake accents—say, Australian elves? No one questions festive weirdos. And if it goes south, we blame the bunny mascot. Always the bunny's fault." Molly chuckled despite herself, tracing the route on the map. "Fine, but we rehearse. No ad-libbing your 'magic.' And if a kid latches on, you're on diaper duty—metaphorically." "Deal," Bill said, high-fiving her. The mustache finally fell into the pizza box. "To the heist of the century: Operation Pinata Payday!" As they plotted escape routes and contingency plans—backup involving a rented bouncy castle for quick getaway—Molly felt the familiar thrill. Stealing from adults was business; from kids? Pure, anarchic comedy gold. The party was Saturday. By Sunday, they'd be laughing all the way to the bank, bells jingling in their wake. But deep down, she wondered if Bill's elf hat would survive the first sugar-rushed toddler hug.