Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9CT6R6PGHBJN1QDFSJHJW

Molly hunched over the kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a glittering birthday invitation splayed out like a treasure map. Pinatas dangled from the ceiling fan, mocking their schemes. Bill paced, twirling a fake mustache that kept slipping off his lip. "Listen, Bill," Molly said, jabbing the invite with a greasy finger. "Rich kid's eighth birthday at the McMansion on Elm Street. Pool party, bounce house, clown—prime chaos. Presents piled sky-high under that gazebo. We snag 'em all, fence 'em for quick cash." Bill snorted, mustache flopping. "Kids' toys? Molly, we're thieves, not yard-sale hustlers. What're we gonna do, hock Barbies and Legos? 'Slightly chewed action figures, $500 OBO'?" "Undervaluing the haul, genius," she shot back, eyes gleaming. "Designer unwraps—iPads, bikes, gaming consoles. Parents overspend to one-up each other. We hit at cake time, when eyes glaze over sugar highs." He stopped pacing, leaning in. "Entry plan? Storm the bounce house like ninjas?" Molly grinned, sketching on a napkin. "Better. I go as the face-painter. You? Life-sized piñata. Stagger in stuffed with black duffels. Kids whack you—distraction gold. While they're beating your candy-stuffed ass, I stuff presents into your hollow gut." Bill howled. "Piñata Bill! Brilliant, but what if the clown sniffs us? That red-nose freak's got cop vibes." "Clowns are amateurs," she waved him off. "We'll spike the punch with sleepy-time meds—non-lethal, just drowsy parents. You flop dramatically when they bash you open. Candy explodes everywhere, kids swarm. I slip out the side gate with the goods." He adjusted his mustache, which now dangled like a sad caterpillar. "Getaway? Cake's at 3 PM sharp. Traffic's hell with soccer moms." "Stolen ice cream truck parked two blocks over," Molly said triumphantly. "Chime our way out—'Helado! Helado!' No one suspects Mr. Softee hauling loot. We divvy at the warehouse: you get the bikes, I take tech." Bill rubbed his chin. "Risks? Screaming brats? Helicopter parents filming everything?" "Brats'll think it's part of the show," she countered. "Post on TikTok: 'Epic piñata fail!' We go viral as heroes. And if a Karen spots us—'Allergy check! Gluten in that piñata?'—we bail with half the take." He paused, smirking. "One hitch: you're allergic to face paint. Last con, you swelled up like a balloon animal." Molly punched his arm. "Details! Benadryl and grit. We're pros." Bill nodded, mustache finally sticking. "Piñata Bill and Face-Paint Molly versus Party Hell. Let's steal some childhood." They clinked beer cans, laughter echoing as Molly taped a tiny sombrero to Bill's head. Outside, suburbia slumbered, oblivious to the candy-coated caper brewing. Word count: 498.