Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8Z5EJ564QWVD1SYVM4GQX

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped motel room, blueprints of "Timmy's Super-Duper Birthday Bash" venue spread out like a treasure map. Bill paced, chomping a stale pretzel, his eyes gleaming under the flickering bulb. "Listen, Bill, this is gold," Molly whispered, jabbing a finger at the sketch of the backyard pavilion. "Rich kid's party. Presents piled higher than a Kardashian's ego. Designer toys, gadgets, cash-stuffed envelopes. We snag 'em all, fence 'em quick, retire to Margaritaville." Bill snorted, spraying crumbs. "Retire? Ha! Last heist we 'retired' to a dumpster. But yeah, kids' parties are soft targets. No armed guards, just sticky-fingered rugrats and punch-drunk parents." Molly grinned, cracking her knuckles. "Entry point: bounce house. We inflate it extra big, hide inside during setup. You dressed as the magician—top hat, cape, fake rabbit." "Rabbit? I'm allergic! It'll be 'Houdini meets sneeze-fest.' What about you?" "Party princess! Tiara, poofy dress, glitter wand. I'll dazzle the kiddos with magic tricks while you sleight-of-hand the gift table." Bill stopped pacing, eyes wide. "Sleight-of-hand? With fifty hyperactive brats swarming? One grabs my cape, game over! 'Hey mister, why's your rabbit puking furballs?'" Molly laughed, slapping the table. "Distraction's key. I spike the punch with sleepy-time herbs—nothing lethal, just nap juice for the tots. Parents too busy snapping selfies. You stuff presents in the bounce house vents, deflate on cue, we haul ass in the ice cream truck we 'borrowed.'" "Ice cream truck? Brilliant! Sirens wail like a sugar rush. But clowns? The invite says 'no clowns, traumatized Timmy last year.'" "Forget clowns. We go as dinosaur piñata repairmen. Oversized T-Rex suits—can't see us coming. Rip open the real piñata mid-party, blame the dinos, kids think it's part of the fun. Candy everywhere, chaos supreme!" Bill rubbed his chin. "Dinos fighting a piñata... poetic. Getaway: bounce house deflates into a balloon blockade, blocking the parents. We roll out the truck, horns blaring 'Happy Birthday' remix. Split the loot fifty-fifty?" "Sixty-forty, my idea," Molly shot back. "Deal, but I pick first dibs on the drone that shoots lasers." She rolled her eyes. "Fine, greedy-guts. Timing: hit at cake-cutting peak. Two hours tops. Masks under costumes, alibis ready—'We were at the zoo.'" Bill high-fived her. "This is our Ocean's Eleven, kid edition. No violence, pure comedy gold. Those presents are as good as ours!" Molly folded the blueprints, smirking. "Just pray Timmy doesn't have a pet tiger or something. Last thing we need is Jurassic Park for real." As Bill stuffed the pretzel bag in his pocket, they clinked coffee mugs. The heist was on—laughs guaranteed, or their money back.