Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7YHF29DH150JQ7RRGJ3T4

Molly paced the cluttered motel room, her eyes glued to a crumpled blueprint of the McAllister mansion. Bill lounged on the bed, munching on a stale doughnut, his fake mustache peeling at the edges. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, slapping the blueprint onto the rickety table. "The party's tomorrow—little Timmy's tenth birthday bash. Balloons, cake, the works. And under that piñata? A mountain of presents. We're talking bikes, gadgets, that new video game console everyone's raving about. We snag 'em all, fence 'em quick, and retire to Fiji." Bill wiped crumbs from his chin. "Fiji? With our luck, it'll be the county jail. How we even getting in? It's a kids' party, not a bank vault." "Disguises, genius," Molly shot back, holding up a clown wig and a red nose. "You're Bozo the Clown, hired entertainment. I'll be the balloon artist. We blend in, scope the joint, then bam—during the cake-cutting chaos, we load up the van parked out back." Bill snorted. "Bozo? I look ridiculous in polka dots. Last time I wore a wig, it caught fire from that botched fireworks heist. And what if the kids swarm me? I hate kids—they're sticky and ask too many questions." "Deal with it," Molly snapped. "Pretend you're fun. Juggle some balls, tell bad jokes. 'Why did the thief go to the party? To get presents!' See? Comedic gold." Bill rolled his eyes. "Hilarious. Okay, fine. But the presents—where they stashing 'em? Not under the tree like Christmas; it's a summer bash." "Intel says the gift table's in the living room, right by the French doors," Molly replied, pointing at the blueprint. "We create a diversion. I pop a balloon animal that looks like a bomb—nah, too risky. How about you 'accidentally' knock over the punch bowl? Flood the floor, parents freak, we slip out with the loot in garbage bags disguised as party trash." "Genius, but what about security? Rich folks like the McAllisters got cameras, maybe a guard dog," Bill countered, sitting up. Molly grinned slyly. "Cameras? We loop the feed with that hack from the museum job. Dog? Sedative-laced hot dogs. Easy peasy." Bill scratched his head. "Sedatives? Where we getting those? And hot dogs—I'm allergic, remember? Last time, I swelled up like a balloon myself." "Stop whining," Molly said, exasperated. "I'll handle the dog. You focus on not tripping over your giant clown shoes. Look, Bill, this is our big score. No more penny-ante gigs. Imagine it: sandy beaches, no more ramen noodles." Bill sighed dramatically. "Fine, but if a kid pukes on me, I'm out. Deal?" "Deal," Molly laughed. "Now, practice your clown laugh. Ho ho ho—no, that's Santa. Try again." Bill honked an imaginary nose. "Honk honk! Let's steal some joy!" They both burst out laughing, the blueprint forgotten amid their ridiculous scheming. Little did they know, the real chaos was just beginning.