Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY95WWW6G9XNQ06CEZ49HZ2

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a crumpled party invitation clutched in her grease-stained fingers. The invite was a garish explosion of balloons and cartoon dinosaurs: "Dino-Mite Birthday Bash for Timmy! All kids welcome! Presents galore!" Bill paced behind her, twirling a rubber dinosaur he'd swiped from a dollar store, his eyes gleaming like a kid spotting candy. "Listen up, Bill," Molly said, jabbing the invite with a stubby pencil. "This is gold. Timmy's rich daddy's throwing the bash at that swanky backyard in the suburbs. Piñata stuffed with cash, mountain of presents—Xboxen, bikes, the works. We hit at peak chaos, three p.m." Bill stopped pacing, grinning like a hyena. "Chaos? With snot-nosed brats everywhere? Molly, you're a genius. But how? We can't just waltz in with sacks marked 'Swag'." She smirked, sketching a crude map. "Disguises, dummy. I'm going as the balloon lady—big hat, squeaky voice. You? Clown. Red nose, floppy shoes. We'll mingle, spike the punch with sleepy-time juice—nothing lethal, just nap vibes for the rugrats." Bill snorted, honking the dinosaur's tail. "Clown? Me? Last time I dressed funny, I tripped over my own pants and face-planted into a cake. Remember Aunt Edna's wedding?" Molly rolled her eyes. "That's why it's perfect! Distraction gold. You 'accidentally' squirt seltzer on the parents, start a pie fight. Kids scream, chase you—bam, present pile unguarded. I stuff the loot bags while you honk your way to the fence." He leaned in, eyes wide. "Fence? It's got razor wire! And guard dogs—little yappers, but still." "Peanut butter," she whispered conspiratorially. "Slather their snoots. They lick, we slip. Getaway van's the ice cream truck we boosted last week. Chimes drown out the wails." Bill rubbed his chin, nodding furiously. "Ice cream truck! Brilliant. 'One scoop of heist, hold the cops.' But what if Timmy's dad clocks us? Guy's built like a bouncer." Molly cackled, pulling out fake mustaches. "We abort with the panic word: 'Pinata-palooza.' You yell it, I trigger the smoke bomb from the clown pants. Poof—gone like ghosts." He slapped the table, rattling coffee mugs. "Pinata-palooza! Love it. Split sixty-forty, my way? I hate kids' music." "Fifty-fifty, or you sleep with the rubber T-Rex," she shot back, tossing him the mustache. "Rehearse the honk." Bill obliged, squeezing out a pathetic "Honk!" They dissolved into laughter, plotting the silliest score of their crooked careers. Outside, a real kid's birthday echoed faintly—practice for pandemonium. (Word count: 498)