Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9H69XKSDV53EG93GX99S4

Molly hunched over the greasy booth table in the back of the all-night diner, her eyes darting suspiciously at the flickering neon sign outside. Bill slouched across from her, munching on a half-eaten burger, crumbs dusting his ill-fitting trench coat. The plan was absurd, even for them—crashing a kiddie birthday bash to swipe every shiny-wrapped present in sight. But with the holidays around the corner and their rent overdue, desperate times called for pint-sized larceny. "Listen, Bill," Molly whispered, sliding a crumpled map of the neighborhood across the table. "The party's at the Johnsons' place on Elm Street. Big backyard blowout for little Timmy turning six. Balloons, cake, and a mountain of gifts from doting aunts and uncles. We hit it at peak chaos—right after the piñata bursts." Bill wiped ketchup from his chin, grinning like a kid himself. "Piñata? Genius! Kids'll be swarming like piranhas. We dress as clowns, yeah? I got this red nose from that Halloween gig gone wrong." Molly snorted, jabbing the map with her finger. "Clowns? Are you high? Last time you 'acted' in costume, you tripped over your own shoelaces and knocked out the security guard. No, we're going as entertainers. Magicians. I'll be the glamorous assistant, you'll be the bumbling wizard pulling rabbits out of hats—or in our case, presents out of the gift table." Bill leaned in, eyes widening. "Ooh, rabbits! I could really pull off a rabbit. But what if the kids spot us stuffing sacks? They're tiny detectives, Mol. One screams 'thief!' and we're toast." She rolled her eyes, sketching a quick diagram on a napkin. "Distraction's key. You do the magic show—wave your wand, spout nonsense rhymes. While the rugrats are mesmerized, I slip behind the bounce house and load up. We've got ten minutes tops before the parents sober up from the punch. Exit through the side gate, van parked two blocks away." "Sounds solid," Bill said, nodding vigorously. "But the presents—worth it? Could be socks or educational toys. I want gold, Mol. Or at least gift cards." "Idiot," Molly hissed, flicking a fry at him. "It's not about the haul's value; it's volume. Fence 'em online as 'gently used' from a yard sale. We'll clear enough for a month. Just don't go rogue and 'magic' a pony or something." Bill chuckled, flexing imaginary muscles. "Me? Rogue? Nah, I'll stick to the script. Abracadabra, presents gone—poof!" As the waitress refilled their coffees, Molly folded the map, her mind racing through contingencies. Bill's enthusiasm was infectious, but she knew his track record: the botched jewelry store caper where he'd mistaken a mannequin for a guard. Still, in the dim diner glow, the heist felt almost plausible—like a punchline waiting to land. "Tomorrow at noon," she said finally. "Rehearse your patter. And Bill? No real rabbits." He saluted with his burger. "Aye, captain. To the great present pandemonium!" Outside, the city hummed with oblivious night life, while inside, two thieves plotted their silliest score yet.