Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8GKTPYA4BBAYJH0BKZR0P

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, blueprints of the suburban mansion spread out like a treasure map. Bill paced behind her, munching on a stale pretzel, his wiry frame buzzing with nervous energy. The air smelled of burnt toast and cheap coffee—perfect fuel for their latest caper. "Listen, Molly," Bill started, wiping crumbs from his mustache. "This isn't your run-of-the-mill jewelry heist. We're talking kids' birthday party. Balloons, clowns, a piñata stuffed with candy. And presents—piles of 'em, wrapped up fancy for little Timmy's tenth bash." Molly peered closer at the diagram, her red hair falling like a curtain over one eye. She traced a finger along the backyard fence. "Exactly, Bill. Unwrap the joy, steal the toys. High-end stuff too—Xbox, drones, that new robot dog everyone's raving about. Parents drop a fortune to avoid tantrums. We slip in during the cake chaos, grab the gift table, and poof—outta there before the sugar rush hits." Bill stopped pacing and leaned in, eyes wide. "But the kids! What if we trip over a rugrat? Or worse, some hyper toddler tattles? 'Mommy, the funny man took my Barbie!' We'd be toast." She smirked, tapping a pencil against her teeth. "Funny man? That's you in the clown costume, genius. I'll be the face-painter lady—harmless, blending right in. You distract with balloon animals while I case the pile. Ten minutes max: snag the big boxes, stuff 'em in the van disguised as the catering truck." He chuckled, but it came out nervous. "Clown costume? Me? Last time I dressed up, I scared the neighbor's cat into a coma. And what about security? Rich folks like the Goldbergs probably got cameras, maybe even a guard dog." Molly waved him off, sketching a quick escape route. "Cameras? We'll loop the feed with that gadget from Eddie—shows endless kids' games footage. Dog? Bribe it with treats. Or you juggle bones. Point is, chaos is our cover. Parents too busy snapping pics, kids too sticky with frosting to notice." Bill rubbed his chin, warming up. "Okay, say we pull it off. Where do we fence the haul? Can't exactly pawn a pile of My Little Ponies without questions." "Online auctions, dummy," she shot back. "Break 'em down, sell as 'gently used.' Or hit the black market for holiday flips—Christmas is coming, desperate uncles everywhere. We'll net enough for that beach getaway we've been dreaming of." He grinned, finally sitting down. "Beach getaway with stolen swag? You're a poet, Mol. But if a clown van gets stuck in the mud..." "Then you honk the nose and we improvise," she said, folding the blueprints. "Like always. Partners in pint-sized crime." Bill raised his coffee mug. "To the heist that keeps on giving. Or taking." Molly clinked hers against it. "Cheers to that. Now, pass the pretzels—planning works up an appetite." As the sun dipped low, their laughter echoed, plotting the perfect party pooper.