Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY982W4E9JZNWKS0JS903VZ

Bill had a neon-yellow juice box sleeve stuck to his wrist (stolen, not intentional). “Smart?” he mumbled, craning around the oak. “Last piñata job: plate hat.” Backyard chaos—toddler wailed over a sippy cup, six-year-old flicked a lollipop stick. Donkey piñata creaked. Molly, on a stolen folding chair, adjusted a store-bought earpiece. “Kids’ parties: weakest at the gift table. Ripped paper, no cameras, parents busy with dog poop.” Bill scowled, ski mask sliding down (stolen from a dumb bank—eyes look sad blueberries). “Starlight Unicorn Robot? Lights up, sings, comes with Sparkle Pony. Worth jello? But kid tears—” “Easier than adult. Watch.” She pointed to rainbow presents, a few torn. “Clock’s ticking. Donkey’ll explode. Sugar rushes. Take Unicorn, dino kit. Dragon crayons—look important. Kid’s face? Priceless.” Bill fumbled his mask. “What if they see us? Lollipop kid’s too close—smelling the bushes.” Molly squinted. Six-year-old tilted his head, confused. “Checking if we’re piñata. Ignore. Distraction.” She pulled a whoopee cushion (stolen party supply). “Squeeze when I say ‘now’—he’ll pee. Kids lose it over farts. Study once.” Bill stared. “Fart noise? Sounds like—” “A fart. Kids go nuts. Trust me.” Lawn dart tinkled, toddler wailed. Molly checked her phone—1:17. “Go. Grab Unicorn, dino, crayons. Gift table. Bill?” “Yeah?” “Don’t touch jello. Mint, stains gloves—neon ‘World’s Okayest Thief’—everyone’ll know.” “Gloves are fine!” “They’re not. Saw you steal ‘em from the craft store.” “Shut up and hand the whoopee cushion.” Six-year-old stepped closer. Molly squeezed: honk. Kid bolted, cackling. “Told you.” Bill inched toward gifts, elbow in ribbon. “Move over, gorilla.” She tossed scissors. “Taped like a mummy—no cheap knockoffs.” Twin stopped wailing. Mom hurried over, wiping toddler. “Noise okay?” “Squirrel, dear.” Bill tugged Unicorn—beeped, garbled “Twinkle Twinkle.” Mom glanced over, back to kids. “Weird.” Molly grabbed dino, crayons, animal crackers. “Got it—nod.” “Let’s book it before piñata hits.” Bill stood, sleeve flapping. “Need bigger distraction?” “Nah. Fart noise enough. Kids remember forever. Therapists later.” Piñata cracked, candy rained. Kids dived. Molly and Bill slipped, shoulders brushing the fence. “Not bad,” Bill said. “Skip balloon decor? Looked like an airheaded sponge.” “Absolutely—if you hold the unicorn. Mine. Jello’s yours.” Bill paused. “Jello with extra berries?” “Hypothetically. Come on—before the balloon kid returns.” Neighbor Marge’s voice crackled: “Molly? Dog ate key—groom him first.” “Later, Marge. Priorities.” They melted into the street, unicorn beeping, dino clinking. Somewhere, a kid screamed, “MOM, SPARKLES!” Bill grinned. “Best heist.” Molly nodded. “Circus next—lions nothing.”