Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8X6ZG4P7GNQYD69E95B7N

Molly slammed a crumpled birthday invitation onto the scarred diner table, her eyes gleaming under the flickering neon sign. Bill, nursing a coffee that smelled like regret, leaned in, his mustache twitching like a nervous ferret. "Listen up, Bill," Molly hissed. "Rich kid's turning six tomorrow. Mansion on Elm Street. Piñata, pony rides, and a mountain of presents worth a cool fifty grand resale. We're crashing the party." Bill's eyes widened. "A kids' party? Molly, those rugrats are feral! Last heist with munchkins, one bit my ankle. And the parents? Helicopters with wine boxes." "Exactly why it's genius," Molly shot back, jabbing the map. "Chaos cover. We go in as entertainers. You—clown. Me—balloon animal queen. Snag the gift table during cake time." Bill snorted coffee. "Clown? I got a phobia of red noses. They'll smell fake faster than week-old fish sticks. What if the pony kicks my ass?" "Pony's your lookout," Molly grinned. "Tie it up near the exit. Kids chase it, we dash with swag. Presents: Lego Death Stars, iPads, gold-plated bikes. Flip 'em on the dark web by Tuesday." Bill scratched his chin. "Dark web? That's hacker stuff. I can barely work the microwave. And the clown car? Ours is a rusty Pinto. Fits one midget and a horn." "Improvise!" Molly snapped. "Borrow from that circus freak down the block. Park a block away, tunnel in via the hedge maze playground. Timing: Games at noon, cake at one—boom, grab and ghost." "Ghost how?" Bill whined. "Balloon animals as diversion? Twist a giraffe that explodes confetti bombs?" "Better," Molly leaned closer. "Inflate one giant snake, rig it to chase the birthday boy. Total pandemonium. We load sacks into the pony trailer—voilà, thieves like ninjas." Bill guffawed. "Ninjas at a tea party? The clown'll cramp my style. Makeup itches. What if a kid pukes on the wig?" "Suck it up, Bozo. Practice your laugh: Ha-ha-heist! We'll split sixty-forty, my way. You in or chicken?" Bill paused, then smirked. "Fine. But if that pony brays, I'm blaming you. And get me a bigger shoe—size twelve for getaway stomps." Molly high-fived him. "Deal. Tomorrow, we party-crash and present-plunder. World's dumbest heist, biggest score." As the diner clock ticked toward midnight, the two schemers plotted deeper, laughter echoing like bad omens. Outside, rain pattered, washing the streets clean for their absurd caper.