Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY85Q7N6814QRVFK13WGW4G

Molly paced the cramped motel room, her black leather jacket slung over a chair piled with crumpled maps. Bill slouched on the bed, munching on a stale doughnut, his eyes lighting up like he'd just won the lottery. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, slapping a blueprint of the suburban mansion onto the rickety table. "The party's tomorrow at noon. Little Timmy's turning eight, and that means a mountain of presents—toys, gadgets, gift cards. We're talking thousands in resale value if we fence 'em right." Bill wiped crumbs from his chin, grinning. "Thousands? Hot damn, Molly! I can finally afford that gold-plated toaster I've been eyeing. But a kids' party? Ain't that risky? Balloons, clowns, screaming brats everywhere." "Risky's our middle name, you idiot," Molly shot back, rolling her eyes. "We'll go in disguised as entertainers. You be the clown—fits your natural talent for looking ridiculous. I'll be the magician's assistant. Wave a wand, pull a rabbit out of a hat, and while the rugrats are dazzled, we swipe the gift table." Bill honked an imaginary nose. "Honk honk! Yeah, but what if the parents notice? Some soccer mom spots us hauling sacks of presents and calls the cops. 'Officer, the clown's got my kid's bike!' Boom, we're toast." Molly smirked, leaning in close. "That's why we bring the diversion. Remember that smoke machine from the museum job? We rig it to the piñata. One good whack, and poof—smoke everywhere. Chaos ensues. Kids coughing, parents panicking. We grab the loot and slip out the back door dressed as caterers." "Caterers? In clown makeup?" Bill chuckled, nearly choking on his doughnut. "Molly, you're a genius, but this sounds like a bad cartoon. What if the birthday boy cries? I ain't good with waterworks. Last time I made a kid bawl, it was 'cause I tripped over his tricycle during recon." "Focus, Bill! No one's crying if we pull this off smooth," Molly snapped, jabbing a finger at the blueprint. "Entry point: kitchen window, unlocked during prep. Exit: garage, where we'll stash the van. And for Pete's sake, don't eat the cake. Last heist, you got frosting all over the getaway car—cops followed the sprinkles right to us." Bill leaned back, arms crossed. "Hey, that cake was chocolate! Irresistible. But fine, no snacks. What about alarms? Rich folks like these got security tighter than a toddler's grip on candy." "Disabled 'em remotely last night," Molly said with a wink. "Hacked the system with that app you mocked. Now, rehearsal: You say, 'Who wants a balloon animal?' While I say, 'Abracadabra!' and poof, presents vanish." Bill stood, mimicking a clown pose. "Abracadabra? More like 'Abra-grab-a-bag!' This is gonna be epic, Molly. We're not just thieves; we're party crashers extraordinaire." Molly laughed despite herself. "Just don't screw it up, or we'll be the ones getting presents—in prison stripes." They high-fived, the blueprint crinkling under their palms, as visions of stolen Barbies and video games danced in their heads.