Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8220AMKGYT7FM4C7D042W

Molly paced the dimly lit motel room, her black turtleneck blending into the shadows, while Bill lounged on the sagging bed, munching on stale chips. A crumpled blueprint of the suburban McMansion lay spread out between them, marked with crayon doodles of escape routes. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, jabbing a finger at the map. "The target's a kiddie birthday bash at the Johnsons' place. Little Timmy turns eight, and word is, the presents are stacked higher than your ego. We're talking bikes, gadgets, maybe even a pony if we're lucky." Bill snorted, crumbs flying. "A pony? Molly, you're dreaming. Last time you said 'easy score,' I ended up chased by a pack of Chihuahuas. What's the plan? We crash the party dressed as clowns?" "Clowns? Please, that's amateur hour," Molly shot back, rolling her eyes. "No, we're going in as caterers. I've got the van ready—'Happy Bites Catering' on the side. You handle the cake diversion, I'll swipe the gift table." Bill sat up, eyes widening. "Cake diversion? You mean I gotta smear frosting all over myself? Molly, I'm allergic to fun. Remember the wedding heist? I ended up with hives from that fondant fiasco." Molly laughed, a sharp bark. "Oh, boo-hoo. Suck it up, buttercup. The kids'll be hyped on sugar; one exploding cake and chaos ensues. Piñata pops, balloons burst—bam! We grab the goodies and bolt." "But what about the parents?" Bill whined, waving a chip like a conductor's baton. "Soccer moms with yoga pants and death stares. One wrong move, and we're toast. And the birthday boy—kids these days are smart. What if he spots us?" Molly smirked, leaning in close. "Kids? Piece of cake. Literally. We'll bribe 'em with extra candy. 'Hey, kiddo, want a lollipop? Just look the other way.' As for parents, distraction numero dos: you start a conga line. Get 'em dancing, I'll wheel the presents out the back." Bill groaned dramatically. "A conga line? Molly, I dance like a penguin on ice. Last time I tried, I tripped over a cat and face-planted in the punch bowl. Why can't I be the wheel man? You do the shimmy." "Because your shimmy looks like a seizure," Molly retorted, punching his arm playfully. "Fine, switch it: I'll lead the conga, you handle the haul. But if you drop a single Barbie dreamhouse, you're dead to me." Bill rubbed his arm, grinning. "Deal. But add this—fake mustache for me, wig for you. Incognito all the way." Molly nodded, eyes gleaming. "Perfect. In and out in twenty minutes. We'll fence the toys at that shady pawn shop downtown. Imagine: bikes for bucks, dolls for dough. This is our big break, Bill. No more penny-ante jobs." Bill high-fived her. "You're a genius, Mol. But one question: what if there's a real pony?" Molly paused, then burst out laughing. "Then we ride it outta there, cowboy! Yee-haw!" They both doubled over, the blueprint forgotten amid their chuckles. The heist was on—ridiculous, risky, and ripe for comedy gold.