Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY86NSZZNXG4N4S8Z4FMARX

Molly hunched over the steering wheel of their rusty van, the engine ticking like a guilty conscience as it cooled in the shadows of Elmwood Estates. Bill sprawled in the passenger seat, crumbs from a pilfered bakery donut dusting his Hawaiian shirt. A glittery birthday invitation fluttered between them, emblazoned with "Timmy Turns 8! Presents Galore!" "Look at this haul, Bill," Molly whispered, eyes gleaming like a ferret spotting a henhouse. "Rich kid's bash. Piñata, bounce house, and a mountain of gifts taller than your ego. We snag 'em all, fence 'em by noon, retire to Margaritaville." Bill snorted, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "Retire? Last heist we planned, you dressed as a nun to rob a bingo hall. Ended up confessing to Father O'Malley for real." Molly slapped the dash, sending a fake mustache tumbling. "That was improv! This is gold. We crash as the entertainment—balloon animals and magic tricks. Kids love clowns. Distract the rugrats, stuff presents in oversized shoes, out the back before cake time." "Clowns?" Bill's face paled. "I got coulrophobia, Mol. Those floppy shoes? Nightmares. And what about the parents? Helicopter moms with iPhones filming every squeak. One viral 'Clown Steals Teddy Bear' vid, and we're toast." She grinned, pulling out a duffel of props: red noses, squirting flowers, a whoopee cushion arsenal. "That's why we go in hot. I twist balloons into getaway cars—poof, misdirection. You do the 'magic gift vanish.' Palm a bike here, a drone there. Kids cry? Blame the piñata fairy." Bill fiddled with a map, tracing the mansion's layout. "Entry: service gate at 2 PM sharp. Bounce house blocks the side yard—perfect cover. But the dog? Guard poodle named Mr. Fluffernutter. One yip, and we're dog chow." "Dognap it in a balloon cage," Molly shot back. "Or spike the punch with sleepy-time Benadryl. Non-lethal, see? We're pros, not monsters." He chuckled despite himself. "Benadryl punch? You're a menace. Okay, timeline: Infiltrate 2:05, load van by 2:45. Exfil via the neighbor's hedge—rented U-Haul disguised as a party rental truck." "Brilliant!" Molly high-fived him, her palm sticky from glitter glue. "Code words: 'Pinch the piñata' means grab and go. If busted, cry 'Allergy attack!' and flee." Bill nodded, sketching a crude clown face on the invite. "One hitch: Timmy's got a twin sister. Double the terror. But hell, for a haul like this—Xboxen, Lego empires, cash-stuffed cards—I'm in. Just no singing 'Happy Birthday' off-key." Molly revved the van to life, headlights slicing the dusk. "Deal. Tomorrow, we make heist history. Or at least fund our bar tab." As they peeled out, Bill muttered, "Famous last words." The van rattled toward destiny, stuffed with dreams of sticky-fingered glory and the faint honk of a rogue clown horn.