Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY87ANMQF1VFE06E7QAJRKX

Molly hunched over the cluttered kitchen table in their rundown apartment, a smeared blueprint of the community center spread out like a battlefield map. Pinwheels and balloon sketches dotted the edges, marking the chaos of "Timmy's 7th Birthday Extravaganza." Bill paced behind her, gnawing on a stale pretzel stick, his trench coat pockets bulging with candy wrappers from reconnaissance. "This is gold, Bill," Molly said, tapping the diagram with a glittery fingernail. "Hundreds of presents under that piñata. Unwrap 'em later, fence for thousands. Kids'll think it's part of the games." Bill snorted, crumbs flying. "Kids? You wanna dodge a horde of sugar-rush gremlins? Last time we hit a mall Santa, I got pied by a toddler. We're thieves, not babysitters." Molly grinned, her eyes sparkling like stolen diamonds. "That's why we're going in as entertainers. You: face paint guy. Me: balloon animal queen. We slip in during cake time, when parents are drunk on punch. Load the van with gift bags while the clown distracts." "Clown?" Bill yelped, stopping dead. "I look ridiculous in red noses! What if some rugrat recognizes us from the news? 'Hey, Mommy, those are the present poachers!'" "Poachers? Ha! Call it a heist-ectomy." Molly rummaged in a duffel, pulling out floppy shoes and a rainbow wig. "Wear this. Practice your balloon sword—pop it for diversion. I'll rig the piñata with a quick-release. Presents avalanche right into our arms." Bill tried the wig; it slid over his eyes. "Blind as a bat! And extraction? Bouncy castle blocks the exit." "Inflate it to bursting," Molly countered, sketching furiously. "Kids swarm it, we dash with the loot. Timing's key: post-cake meltdown, pre-parent sober-up. Van parked as the ice cream truck—ironic, eh?" Bill adjusted the wig, striking a pose. "Okay, fine. But if a kid cries, you're hugging it. Deal?" "Deal. Now rehearse: 'Happy birthday, kiddos! Time for the great gift grab!'" They dissolved into laughter, practicing squeaky voices until the neighbors banged the wall. Molly folded the blueprint, her mind racing with visions of riches. Bill pocketed a rubber chicken, muttering about early retirement. Outside, rain pattered against the window, but inside, the plan hummed like a ticking jack-in-the-box. Timmy's party was tomorrow—no room for boo-boos. Just boom: presents gone, thieves richer, kids none the wiser. Or so they hoped. As they high-fived, Molly whispered, "This'll be our masterpiece. Sweeter than stolen candy." Bill nodded, grinning maniacally. "Let's make it legendary." (Word count: 498)