Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8A8XZJ8EYJQK90AZXZ7GY

Molly hunched over a crumpled map in the dim light of their rusty van, parked across from the suburban cul-de-sac buzzing with balloon preparations. Bill, her lanky partner-in-crime, paced like a caffeinated squirrel, his fake mustache askew. The target: a lavish birthday bash for little Timmy Turner's tenth, stacked with presents from doting aunts and uncles—untraceable loot worth a fortune on the black market for resold toys. "Disguises first," Molly whispered, sketching a clown nose on the map. "We go in as party entertainers. You juggle the kiddos' attention while I swipe the gift table." Bill snorted, tripping over a tangle of extension cords they'd "borrowed." "Juggling? I'm allergic to kids' screams. What if one bites me? Or worse—starts crying?" "Focus, Bill. We hit at cake time, when they're all sugar-high and distracted. Load the van quick, vanish like ghosts in greasepaint." He grinned, adjusting his ill-fitting bowtie. "Ghosts? More like the Grinch's bumbling cousins. This'll be gold—er, toys." As dusk fell, Molly revved the engine softly, her mind racing through alibis. Bill hummed a mangled birthday tune, oblivious to the flock of rubber ducks spilling from his pocket. The heist was set: pure chaos wrapped in wrapping paper. But in heist lore, plans were made to unravel hilariously.