Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8DZPP5F6EMZK032WXM811

Molly prodded a congealed hash brown across her diner plate, the booth’s vinyl sticking to her scuffed boots as Bill unfolded a crumpled pink party invitation. The neon sign above the counter flickered, casting a sickly orange glow over their scribbled notes. “You sure this is the big score? Kids’ birthday presents?” Molly said. “Have you seen the registry? The mom’s a tech exec—there’s a portable gaming console, a diamond-encrusted hair clip for her 6-year-old, even a mini drone.” Bill tapped the invitation’s fine print. “Diamond hair clip? For a kid who eats glue?” “Exactly—she’ll never miss it till the party’s over. We just need a way in.” “I scoped the backyard yesterday. There’s a bounce house with a tear in the side.” “Tear? Perfect—we can squeeze through after the cake-cutting rush.” “What about the party clown? He’s got a mean stare when he’s twisting balloons.” “I’ve got a whoopee cushion stash. Stick one under his stool during the magic trick—he’ll lose his balance, everyone laughs, we slip in.” “And the present table? It’s by the sliding glass door, guarded by the mom’s sister who collects garden gnomes.” “Garden gnomes? I’ll ‘accidentally’ kick a gnome into the pool—she’ll dive after it like it’s a gold bar.” “You ever kicked a garden gnome? They’re heavier than they look.” “I once lifted a 20-pound gnome to hide a stolen wallet—trust me.” “What about the kids? One of them’s bound to spot us rummaging through presents.” “I’ve got a bag of glow-in-the-dark stickers. Toss ’em across the yard—they’ll chase them like seagulls after french fries.” “Glow-in-the-dark stickers? That’s your master plan?” “Hey, it worked on my niece when I stole her lollipop last Christmas.” “Your niece still calls you the sticker thief.” “Irrelevant. We need a getaway car—my bike’s got a flat tire.” “I’ve got a shopping cart with a wobbly wheel. We can pile the presents in, wheel it to the alley, and hail a taxi.” “A shopping cart? What if the taxi driver asks questions?” “Tell him we’re caterers for a tiny, spoiled wedding.” “Caterers with a shopping cart full of kids’ toys?” “He won’t care—he’s just trying to make rent.” “Fair. What about the piñata? It’s filled with candy, but we don’t have time for that.” “Skip it—unless you want to get stuck in a piñata fight with a bunch of sugar-crazed 6-year-olds.” “Last time I was in a piñata fight, I got hit with a plastic sword.” “Note to self: avoid plastic swords.” “We’ve got the plan. Meet me at the bounce house tear at 3 p.m.” “Wait—what about the cake? I’ve got a sweet tooth.” “Molly, we’re here to steal presents, not eat cake.” “Just a slice. The mom’s a professional baker—her red velvet is legendary.” “Fine. One slice. But if you get caught with cake on your face, I’m denying everything.” Molly stuffed a crumpled napkin with a stolen sugar packet into her pocket, pushing her plate away. Bill folded the invitation into a tiny boat and set it floating in his half-empty coffee. The neon sign flickered out for a second, then back on, as they nodded a silent agreement—their chaotic heist was set, cake detour and all. He grabbed a discarded straw and poked a hole in his coffee boat, watching it sink while Molly muttered about double-checking the bounce house tear’s size. Neither mentioned the quiet fear of getting outsmarted by a glue-eating kid or a gnome-obsessed aunt, their banter masking the absurdity of robbing a 6-year-old’s party for a diamond hair clip and a gaming console.