Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8AD1YQ7GAAA7Z6JFE6573

In the dim glow of a flickering lamp in their cramped apartment, Molly paced back and forth, her wild red curls bouncing like over-caffeinated squirrels. Bill slouched on the sagging couch, scribbling notes on a napkin stained with yesterday's pizza grease. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation, but their eyes sparkled with the thrill of the absurd heist ahead. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, slamming her fist on the rickety table. "This kids' party is our golden ticket. Little Timmy's turning eight, and that means a mountain of presents—video games, bikes, maybe even that fancy drone I've been eyeing. We steal 'em all, fence 'em quick, and retire to that beach in Mexico." Bill looked up, his bushy eyebrows knitting together like confused caterpillars. "Mexico? With our luck, we'll end up in a lobster trap. But okay, genius, how do we crash a kiddie bash without looking like total creeps? I ain't dressing as a pony again—that last gig left me with hay fever and a lawsuit." Molly grinned, pulling out a crumpled clown costume from a duffel bag. "Disguises, you dolt! You're going as Bongo the Clown. Honk your nose, juggle some balls, and while the rugrats are distracted, I'll swipe the gift table. Easy peasy." "Easy? Those brats are like tiny ninjas on sugar highs! Remember the Thompson wedding? One kid bit my ankle thinking I was the piñata. And what about the parents? They'll be hovering like hawks with smartphones ready to film our downfall." She waved him off, her voice dripping with mock confidence. "Parents? Pfft. We'll blend in. I'll be the frazzled aunt—'Oh, dear, where's the cake?'—and you do your clown schtick. 'Hey kids, who wants balloon animals?' While they're squealing, we load the presents into the getaway stroller. I've modded it with extra compartments—fits a whole bike if we fold it right." Bill snorted, nearly choking on his coffee. "A stroller? Molly, you're a madwoman. What if there's a real baby in it? Or worse, one of those demon toddlers who screams bloody murder? Last time we tried a family gig, I ended up covered in glitter and regret." "Glitter washes off, regrets don't. Think big, Bill! Imagine the haul: Legos, action figures, gift cards. We'll be rolling in it. Entry point's the backyard—scale the fence during the cake-cutting chaos. You create a diversion—maybe fake a magic trick gone wrong, like pulling a rabbit out that's actually our decoy bag." He leaned forward, eyes widening. "A rabbit? Where do we get a rabbit? And what if the kids want to pet it? I'm telling you, this is suicide by birthday candle. One wrong move, and we're dodging dodgeballs from angry soccer moms." Molly laughed, slapping his back. "That's the beauty! Dodgeballs mean distraction. We grab, we dash, we disappear. Trust me, Bill, this'll be our masterpiece. Or at least funnier than that bank job where you tripped over your own shoelaces." Bill sighed, but a smirk crept onto his face. "Fine, but if I end up in a ball pit prison, you're bailing me out. And no more animal sidekicks—next time, we're stealing from adults." As they high-fived, the napkin plan fluttered to the floor, a blueprint for comedic catastrophe.