Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY85PK685HHGRG6BQ76RBPA

Molly hunched over the greasy diner table, blueprints of the Peterson estate spread out like a treasure map. Bill fidgeted across from her, nursing a coffee that smelled like regret. Outside, rain pattered against the window, perfect cover for scheming. "Listen up, Bill," Molly whispered, jabbing a finger at the diagram. "Kids' birthday bash tomorrow. Rich parents, spoiled spawn turning six. Gift table's loaded—Xboxen, bikes, iPads. We snag 'em all during the chaos." Bill's eyes widened. "A children's party? Molly, those tiny terrorists got fists like hammers! One scream and we're swarmed by soccer moms with tasers." "Relax, genius. We go in disguised as entertainers. I'm the clown—red nose, floppy shoes. You're the magician. Abracadabra, presents vanish!" Bill snorted coffee. "Magician? I can barely pull a rabbit outta my ass without it biting me. And clowns? Kids hate clowns now. They're all 'It' this, 'killer' that. We'll trigger a stampede!" Molly grinned, sketching a mustache on the blueprint dad. "Distraction's key. I spike the punch with sleepy-time juice—nothing lethal, just enough drool. You do the magic show: misdirect with card tricks while I stuff sacks under the tablecloth." "Sleepy punch? What if the birthday boy keels over mid-candle blow? Cops'll think we poisoned Pinocchio!" Bill waved his arms like a panicked bird. "Then we blame the caterer. 'Allergic reaction!' Classic. Entry's through the bouncy castle—zip in the back, deflate it for cover. Presents to the van in five minutes flat." Bill leaned in, whispering hoarsely. "Van? My uncle's rustbucket? It backfires like a cannon. Kids'll hear it from space!" "Park it two blocks away. We use wagons—red Radio Flyers, festive! Load 'em up like Santa's elves on steroids. Getaway: blend into the traffic of pissed-off parents fleeing the meltdown." "You're nuts. What about the dog? Blueprint says Fido's a Doberman. One bark and we're kibble." Molly pulled a dog biscuit from her pocket. "Laced with tranquilizers. He'll nap like a king. And security? Ha, it's a kiddie gig. Inflatable arch, balloon guy—worst guard dog's a goldfish." Bill rubbed his temples. "Timing? Cake at 3 PM, piñata massacre after. We hit at 2:45, right when they're blind with sugar?" "Perfect. I create diversion: fake piñata explosion—smoke bombs, candy rain. You vanish the haul. Split fifty-fifty, retire to Margaritaville." "Fifty-fifty? You get the clown shoes, I get mauled by toddlers!" Bill groaned, but his grin betrayed him. Molly slapped his hand. "Deal. Tomorrow, we fleece the rugrats. Heist of the century—or at least the sandbox." Bill sighed. "Fine. But if a kid pukes on me, you're fencing the slime-soaked Barbie solo." As they folded the plans, laughter bubbled between them, two crooks plotting the most ridiculous score of their sticky-fingered lives.