Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8FT9Y7AW6YC2RYVMFH047

Molly hunched over the kitchen table in their cramped hideout, a crumpled party invite splayed out like a treasure map. Pinatas dangled from the ceiling fan above, swaying mockingly. Bill paced, twirling a fake mustache. "Bill, listen," Molly whispered, eyes gleaming. "We crash as the balloon-twisting clowns. Kids love that crap. While they're squealing, we stuff presents into these oversized polka-dot bags." Bill snorted, adjusting his comically large bowtie. "Balloons? Genius! But what if the birthday brat spots us? 'Hey, mister, why's your nose redder than Rudolph's?'" Molly grinned, sketching a floor plan on a napkin. "We spike the punch with sleepy-time juice—non-lethal, just nap-inducing. Parents pass out, kids conk on the bounce house. We roll in, grab the haul: Xboxes, bikes, that pony piñata stuffed with cash!" Bill stopped pacing, rubbing his chin. "Pony piñata? Score! Getaway van disguised as the ice cream truck. Honk the tune backwards for code." "Perfect," Molly said, high-fiving him. "Operation Candy Heist at noon. No tears, all cheers—for us." Bill chuckled. "If we screw this, we'll be the clowns at kiddie jail." She laughed. "Then we'll juggle our way out." The fan spun faster, as if applauding their idiocy.