Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY83W393BJ9A2NVR3RD0YGA

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped safehouse, blueprints of the McMansion spread out like a treasure map. Pinwheels and balloon sketches dotted the edges—Richie Rich's eighth birthday bash, the kind of kid party where presents piled up like a gold rush. Bill paced, gnawing a stale pretzel, his lanky frame casting jittery shadows from the flickering bulb overhead. "Listen up, Bill," Molly said, jabbing a finger at the diagram. "We hit at peak chaos: 3 PM, piñata time. Kids hyped on sugar, parents boozed on mimosa. You dress as the clown—Big Top Billy or whatever. I sneak in as the face painter." Bill stopped mid-chew, eyes bulging. "Clown? Molly, I got a phobia! Last Halloween, that rubber nose made me hurl. And face paint? What if some snot-nosed brat draws a dick on my forehead?" She smirked, sliding a red wig across the table. "Phobia schmobia. It's perfect cover. Honk that horn, juggle the balls—distract the rugrats. I'll be in the gift room, stuffing sacks with Lego sets, iPads, that pony-shaped bounce house. Out in five minutes flat." "Five minutes? Those presents are Fort Knox! Wrapped in barbed wire paper, guarded by Karen the PTA dragon. And the pony bounce house? That's like stealing a whale—how we hauling that?" Molly leaned back, twirling a lockpick. "We improvise. You 'accidentally' pop the piñata early. Candy explosion—mayhem! Kids swarm, parents slip on Skittles. I rig a laundry chute from the gift room to the garage. Sacks slide down, we load the van disguised as the catering truck." Bill snorted, grabbing the wig and plopping it on. Curls flopped over his ears. "Catering truck? Ours reeks of week-old burritos. And the chute? What if it jams? I'm ass-deep in Barbies, yelling for help while Elmo sings from my pocket." "Voice mimic, genius! You do the voices—make it seem like the toys are alive, haunting the party. 'Run, kids, the presents are possessed!' Buys us time." She mimed a spooky wail, cackling. He tried it, voice pitching high: "I'm Lego Larry, and I'm comin' for your souls!" Then normal: "See? Terrifying. But seriously, Molly—what about security cams? Or that bouncy castle moat?" "Blackout balloons. I pop 'em with a slingshot—'Oops, faulty decor!' Cams go dark. Bouncy castle? You deflate it mid-party. Blame the clown curse." She high-fived the air. Bill deflated too, slumping into a chair. "Fine. But if I end up pied in the face or chased by a sugar-rush horde, you're buying the beers. And no skimping on the presents—we split the good stuff fifty-fifty." "Deal. Tomorrow, we rehearse. You're gonna be the star, Big Top Billy." Molly grinned, folding the plans. Outside, party music thumped faintly—practice run for the heist of the century. Bill adjusted the wig, honking an imaginary horn. "Toot toot, motherfudgers. Let's steal some childhood dreams." (Word count: 498. Dialogue words: 249)