Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8A0078BFB7PNTSJE8GWNA

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their dingy apartment, a crumpled party invitation spread out like a treasure map. Bill paced behind her, twirling a lockpick in one hand and a half-eaten doughnut in the other. The room smelled of stale coffee and failed schemes, with sticky notes plastered to the walls: "Bank Heist—ABORTED" and "Jewelry Store—BUSTED." "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, jabbing a finger at the invite. "Rich kid's birthday bash at the McMansion on Elm Street. Pool party, bouncy castle, and a mountain of presents. We're talking designer bikes, gaming consoles, enough cash to fund our next gig. We hit it at peak chaos—mid-cake smash." Bill stopped pacing, crumbs tumbling from his lips. "Presents from a kids' party? Molly, that's low even for us. What if we get caught by a bunch of snot-nosed rugrats? They'll swarm us like piranhas!" "Disguises, genius," she shot back, pulling two floppy clown hats from a duffel bag. "You and me as party entertainers. I'll juggle, you do balloon animals. We slip in, 'entertain' the kiddos, then snag the gift table when the parents are distracted by piñata whacking." Bill snorted, trying on the hat. It flopped over his eyes. "Balloon animals? I can barely tie my shoes. Last time I tried twisting one, it popped and scared the neighbor's cat into a coma. And juggling? You'll drop everything and start a lawsuit." "Practice, Bill! We're pros at this," Molly insisted, tossing an apple in the air and catching it clumsily. It rolled under the table. "Entry: Front door, fake invite. We park the van out back, load up quick. Escape route: Through the hedge maze in their yard—rich folks love that crap. Ten minutes in, ten out. Boom, we're golden." He leaned in, squinting at the map she'd sketched. "Hedge maze? What if we get lost? End up crashing the barbecue next door, stealing hot dogs instead? And the kids— they'll cry if we yoink Santa's sack. Guilt, Molly. Pure guilt." "Pfft, guilt's for amateurs," she said, grinning wickedly. "We'll leave 'em a decoy present: Your old yo-yo. Call it a life lesson in sharing. Now, contingencies. If security shows—ditch the hats, blend as guests. Flirt with the dads, spike the punch." Bill chuckled despite himself. "Spike the punch? With what, our charm? Fine, but I'm driving. Your last getaway had us plowing through a flea market. And no singing 'Happy Birthday'—I sound like a dying walrus." "Deal," Molly agreed, folding the map. "Tomorrow, 2 PM. This haul buys us that beach house dream. No more ramen nights." Bill nodded, pocketing the lockpick. "Beach house with a present pile? You're on. Just don't let me near the balloons." As they high-fived, Molly's elbow knocked over the coffee mug, spilling dark liquid across the invite. "Oops. Symbolic start?" Bill groaned, but they both laughed, the absurdity fueling their fire. The heist was set—clowns, chaos, and a lifetime supply of kiddie loot.