Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY820SCVE5B70XVCYET3RB5

Molly paced the cramped motel room, her black leather jacket zipped up to her chin, while Bill slouched on the bed, scribbling on a napkin with a crayon he'd swiped from a diner. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation, but their eyes gleamed with the thrill of the score. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, slapping a crumpled map of the suburban neighborhood onto the rickety table. "The party's at the Johnson's house—big backyard bash for little Timmy's fifth birthday. Clowns, balloons, the works. And get this: the presents are piled high in the living room, unguarded except for a bunch of sugar-high toddlers." Bill looked up, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. "Toddlers? Molly, you're kidding. We're hitting a kiddie party? What if one of 'em spots us? They'll scream bloody murder!" Molly rolled her eyes. "That's the beauty of it, genius. Kids scream all the time at parties. We'll blend right in. You dress as a clown—big shoes, red nose, the whole shebang. I'll go as the magician's assistant. We waltz in, entertain the brats, and while they're distracted with balloon animals, we snag the gifts and bolt." Bill snorted, nearly choking on his coffee. "Me? A clown? Last time I wore makeup, I looked like a melted Picasso. And what about the parents? They're not idiots—they'll notice a pile of presents vanishing." "Not if we replace 'em with fakes," Molly shot back, grinning like a fox in a henhouse. "I've got a sack of empty boxes wrapped in shiny paper. We swap 'em out quick. 'Oh look, Timmy, another box of air!' By the time they unwrap, we're long gone, fencing Legos and Barbies on the black market." Bill leaned forward, scratching his stubbly chin. "Black market for toys? You're nuts. Remember that heist in Reno? We tried stealing from a wedding, and the bride chased us with her bouquet. This is worse—angry moms with diaper bags. Lethal weapons, those." Molly laughed, punching his arm. "Come on, Bill, where's your sense of adventure? Picture it: you juggling pins, me pulling rabbits out of hats—real rabbits, maybe, to cause chaos. While the kids are chasing fluffy tails, we load the real loot into the van parked out back. Easy peasy." "Easy? What if there's a piñata? Those things are booby-trapped with candy bombs!" Bill protested, waving his arms. "And security? Rich folks like the Johnsons probably have cameras everywhere." Molly waved a hand dismissively. "Hackable junk. I got a guy who can loop the feed with footage of squirrels dancing. Trust me, Bill, this is our ticket to retirement. Steal from the rich kids, give to the poor us." Bill sighed, but a smirk crept onto his face. "Fine, but if a five-year-old bites my ankle, you're buying the bandages. And no sharing the loot with your cat—last time, Mr. Whiskers shredded a diamond necklace thinking it was yarn." Molly chuckled. "Deal. Now, practice your clown laugh. Make it creepy enough to scare the parents, not the presents." As they huddled over the map, plotting escape routes and alibis, the absurdity of their plan hung in the air like birthday confetti—ridiculous, but oh so tempting.