Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY96HCC1KJ97ATWC7K83BY4

Molly hunched over the scarred kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a crumpled party invitation splayed out like a treasure map. Pinwheels and balloons doodled the edges, screaming "Happy 7th Birthday, Timmy!" Bill paced behind her, gnawing on a stale pretzel rod, his eyes wild with larcenous glee. "Listen up, Bill," Molly said, tapping the invite with a chipped nail. "The Johnsons are loaded. Presents piled high under that gazebo—Xboxen, bikes, drones. We're talking ten grand retail, easy resale." Bill leaned in, breath like old cheese. "Genius hit, Mol. But kids everywhere. Screaming ankle-biters. We need disguises. I'm thinking face paint, red noses. Clowns!" Molly snorted, sketching a rough floor plan on a napkin. "Clowns? You'd trip over your giant shoes and honk yourself into custody. No. We crash as caterers. I've got aprons from that wedding gig. Wheel in a cake trolley, swap it for present sacks." Bill's face lit up. "Cake trolley? Brilliant! I hide inside the cake? Pop out, scare the rugrats, grab the loot while they cry?" "You're an idiot," Molly laughed, shoving him. "No popping. We pose as servers during the piñata bash. Kids distracted by candy explosion. You 'accidentally' knock over the gift table into our van parked as the bounce house delivery." Bill rubbed his chin, pretending wisdom. "Bounce house van—camouflage gold. But what if the birthday brat spots us? Timmy's got those beady eyes." Molly grinned wickedly. "We bribe him. Slip him a twenty wrapped in gum. Kids love hush money. Timing's key: enter at 2:45, post-cake, pre-presents. Exit by 4:15, before parents sober up from punch." "Backup plan?" Bill asked, filching her pretzel. "Gas 'em," she whispered theatrically. "Non-lethal fog from party poppers. Looks like fireworks gone wrong." Bill howled. "Fog of doom! You're a poet, Mol. But the dog—invites say Fido's invited." Molly's eyes narrowed. "Dog treats laced with sleepy-time kibble. Stash in apron. Whole op's thirty minutes, tops." He sketched floppy-eared doggos on the napkin. "Getaway? Alley behind gazebo, van disguised as ice cream truck. Free cones for witnesses!" "Perfect," Molly said, high-fiving him. "Load up tonight. Masks under caterer hats. No guns—too noisy. Just sacks and speed." Bill saluted sloppily. "To the heist of the century! Presents for paupers!" They clinked coffee mugs, visions of twinkling toys dancing in their heads. Outside, a kid's birthday parade honked by, oblivious to the comedy of errors brewing. Molly folded the napkin blueprint, heart pounding with glee. Bill practiced his server bow in the mirror—already wobbling like a drunk giraffe. As dusk fell, they packed the van: aprons, sacks, doggy dope. "This'll be legendary," Bill muttered. Molly smirked. "Or our mugshot debut. Let's roll." (Word count: 498. Dialogue: 152 words / 31%)