Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8RGRRQEYMSDMAPS9M431B

Molly hunched over the scarred kitchen table, her sharp eyes scanning the glittery party invitation under the harsh fluorescent light. Bill paced behind her, gnawing on a half-eaten burrito, crumbs tumbling onto the floor like confetti from hell. The plan was insane—break into little Timmy Turner's seventh birthday extravaganza at the community center and swipe every last present under the tree. Designer toys, bikes, cash-stuffed cards: a goldmine wrapped in kiddie wrapping paper. "Listen up, Bill," Molly said, tapping the invite with a chipped nail. "We go in as the balloon animals guy and his assistant. I've got the outfits. You twist balloons into swords and shit while I case the present pile." Bill stopped pacing, his face lighting up like a kid spotting candy. "Balloon animals? Awesome! I practiced. Watch." He yanked a balloon from his pocket, puffed it up, and twisted it into a lopsided dachshund that looked more like a deflated penis. "See? Deadly accurate." Molly snorted, shoving it aside. "Christ, Bill, that's gonna scare the rugrats into therapy. Stick to simple shit—dogs, swords. The party's at two PM sharp. Cake at three, piñata at four. We hit during piñata chaos. Kids blindfolded, swinging sticks like mini-zombies. Parents distracted by sugar highs." Bill nodded vigorously, burrito forgotten. "Got it. I create diversion—fake a balloon explosion or something. You grab the sacks?" "Two duffels hidden in the van," she confirmed, sketching a crude map on a napkin. "Park out back by the dumpsters. In through the service door—prop it with a brick. Out the same way, presents loaded. Getaway in under ten minutes." "But what about the clown?" Bill asked, eyes wide. "Invites say Bozo the Blowhard's performing." Molly grinned wickedly. "We 'accidentally' lock him in the porta-potty pre-party. Told ya to bring the duct tape." Bill chuckled, slapping his knee. "Genius! And the parents? Some look loaded—dads in suits, moms with Rolexes." "Ignore 'em," Molly snapped. "They're too busy Instagraming to notice. Worst case, you cry uncle if a kid tugs your wig. Act paternal—'Hey sport, wanna see a magic trick?' Then poof, balloon smokescreen." "Smokescreen? With what?" Bill rummaged in his fanny pack, pulling out a whoopee cushion. Molly facepalmed. "No, idiot. Baby powder in balloons. Pop 'em, cloud of white chaos. Kids think it's snow. We vanish." Bill pumped his fist. "This is gold, Moll! We'll be rich—buy that beach house, sip piña coladas." "Or just pay rent," she muttered, folding the map. "Rehearse tonight. No more wiener dogs." As Bill practiced twisting another balloon—this one resembling a strangled giraffe—Molly eyed the clock. Tomorrow, the heist. What could go wrong with hyperactive toddlers and a sugar-fueled mob? Everything, probably. But damn, it was funny. (Word count: 498. Dialogue words: 152.)