Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8FCVPRNAC6NJFXAGD48Q4

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their dingy apartment, a crumpled party invitation spread out like a treasure map. Bill paced back and forth, his oversized trench coat dragging on the floor, making him look like a deranged penguin. The target: Little Timmy's eighth birthday bash at the upscale McMansion on Elm Street. Presents galore—Xbox, bikes, the works. Easy score, if they didn't screw it up. "Alright, Bill," Molly said, tapping the invitation with a chipped fingernail. "We hit the party at peak chaos—two o'clock, when the piñata explodes and the kids turn into a screaming horde. You go in as the balloon man. I've got the clown costume for me. No one suspects the entertainment." Bill stopped pacing and scratched his stubbled chin. "Balloon man? Molly, I can't twist balloons. Last time I tried, it looked like a deflated sausage. What if some snot-nosed kid asks for a dog?" "Then you give him the finger shaped like a dog, genius. Improvise. The point is camouflage. We mingle, wait for the gift-opening frenzy, then snag the pile while parents are distracted by cake smears and tantrums." Bill plopped into a chair, knocking over a half-empty coffee mug. "Okay, but how do we haul the loot? Can't exactly stroll out with a sack of Barbies and Lego sets. The cops'll be all over us." Molly smirked, pulling a blueprint from her purse. "That's where the bounce house comes in. We'll rig it with a hidden zippered compartment underneath. Presents go in there during the games. I create a diversion—fake a squirting flower malfunction, spray the birthday boy with colored water. You scoop and stuff while I'm the hero clown wiping him down." Bill's eyes widened. "Squirting flower? You're a maniac. What if the dad pulls a gun? These rich folks pack heat for piñata duty." "Pfft, suburbia special forces? Nah. Worst case, we blame the dog. Say it's rabid or something. But listen, timing's key. In at 1:45, out by 3:00. Escape van parked two blocks away, disguised as the catering truck. I hot-wire it if needed—your shaky hands couldn't start a lawnmower." "Hey, my hands are steady! Remember that vending machine job? Clean grab." Bill puffed out his chest, then deflated. "Fine, but what about the piñata? Kids swinging bats like mini psychopaths. One whack to the noggin, and we're explaining this to the ER." Molly laughed, a sharp bark. "We'll avoid the blindfolded brigade. Stick to the edges. And if things go south, code word: 'Pinch hitter.' We abort, blame it on the magician pulling disappearing rabbits instead." Bill nodded slowly, grabbing a pen to scribble notes on a napkin. "Pinch hitter. Got it. This could be our best yet, Mol. Kids' parties—zero security, all sugar highs. We're in and out like ghosts in greasepaint." "Ghosts with sticky fingers," she corrected, folding the blueprint. "Now, practice your balloon animals. And Bill? No eating the cake. We need you sharp, not sugared up like a hyper toddler." He grinned, twisting an imaginary balloon into a lopsided mess. "Deal. To the heist of the century!"