Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7W5TJ6AJYPBQ1JVABYB78

Molly slumped into the creaky armchair of their rundown apartment, a crumpled blueprint of the suburban McMansion spread across the coffee table. Bill paced back and forth, munching on a stale donut, his eyes gleaming with that manic spark that always preceded their wildest schemes. "Alright, Molly, listen up," Bill said, wiping powdered sugar from his chin. "This kids' party is our golden ticket. Little Timmy's turning eight, and his parents are loaded. Presents piled high—video games, bikes, maybe even that new drone I've been eyeing. We swoop in, grab 'em all, and vanish like ghosts." Molly arched an eyebrow, sipping her lukewarm coffee. "Ghosts? At a children's party? Bill, have you lost your marbles? Those brats will be everywhere, hyped on sugar and screaming. How do we even get inside without looking like total creeps?" Bill grinned, holding up a clown wig he'd pilfered from a thrift store. "Disguises, baby! We go as entertainers. I'll be Bongo the Clown, juggling pins while you, uh, Magic Molly, pull rabbits out of hats. Distract the kids, then bam—straight to the gift table." "Rabbits? Where am I supposed to get a rabbit? And clowns? Kids hate clowns these days. One wrong honk, and we're mobbed by toddlers with water guns." Molly leaned forward, poking at the blueprint. "Look, the party's in the backyard. Tent, bouncy house, the works. Entrance through the side gate. But security? Those rich folks probably have cameras everywhere." Bill waved her off. "Cameras? Pfft. I've got my jammer gadget from that last job. Zaps 'em dead for fifteen minutes. We time it right—during the cake-cutting chaos. Kids are distracted, parents are tipsy on punch. You sneak the presents into black trash bags, label 'em as 'party trash,' and I wheel 'em out to the van parked down the block." Molly chuckled, shaking her head. "Party trash? Genius, until some nosy neighbor spots us. 'Hey, why's the clown hauling garbage?' And what about the dog? Blueprint shows a guard dog—big one, probably slobbers more than you after a beer." "Easy peasy," Bill shot back. "I bribe it with steaks. Dogs love me. Remember that heist at the vet's? Fido was my best pal by the end." "Yeah, until he bit your ankle," Molly retorted, smirking. "Fine, steaks it is. But contingency plan? If things go south, what's our exit?" Bill struck a dramatic pose. "The bouncy house! We dive in, bounce our way to the fence, flip over like acrobats. Kids think it's part of the show. 'Yay, clown Olympics!'" Molly burst out laughing. "You're insane, Bill. Clown Olympics? Alright, I'm in. But if we get caught, you're explaining to the cops why we're dressed like rejects from a circus nightmare." "Deal," Bill said, high-fiving her. "This'll be the heist of the century. Who knew robbing kids could be so fun?" As they huddled over the blueprint, plotting every ridiculous detail, the apartment filled with their scheming whispers and muffled giggles. The plan was absurd, but in their line of work, absurdity was just another word for success.