Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9HHG81XSWMN658NHQNFNB

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped Brooklyn walk-up, squinting at a crumpled map of the suburban mansion. Bill paced behind her, waving a half-eaten bagel like a conductor's baton. The target: little Timmy Turner's eighth birthday bash tomorrow. A goldmine of unopened gifts, courtesy of doting aunts and uncles with zero security sense. "Listen, Bill," Molly said, jabbing the map with a greasy finger. "We hit at peak chaos—piñata time. Kids screaming, parents distracted by cake. We slip in as caterers. Easy peasy." Bill snorted, crumbs flying. "Caterers? In what, our ski masks? Nah, Molly, we go as clowns. Red noses, floppy shoes—the works. Nobody questions a clown at a kid's party." She rolled her eyes, sketching a quick floor plan. "Clowns? You'd trip over your own feet and blow the whole op. Remember the jewelry store gig? You 'disguised' as a plumber and flooded the safe room." "Hey, that water made the diamonds sparkle!" Bill protested, plopping into a chair that wobbled under his bulk. "Fine, no clowns. But how do we snag the presents without the rugrats noticing? Those boxes are piled like a Lego fortress." Molly leaned back, tapping her chin. "Diversion. We rig the bounce house to deflate mid-party. Boom—pandemonium. While they're rescuing little Johnny from the vinyl avalanche, we load the van. I've got black trash bags hidden in the gift wrapping paper rolls." Bill grinned, eyes lighting up. "Genius. But what about the birthday boy? Kid's got that sixth sense for spotting thieves. Last year, he called the cops on the ice cream man for 'looking shady.'" "We bribe him," Molly whispered conspiratorially. "A shiny new drone from the haul. Tell him it's our 'special present' for being such a good lookout." Bill burst out laughing, slapping the table. "You're evil, Mol. I love it. Okay, timeline: We arrive at noon, mingle till two, piñata pops at three. Out by three-fifteen, presents en route to the fence by dusk." She nodded, folding the map. "One hitch—the clown car. We can't exactly Uber a getaway with a trunk full of Barbies and bikes." "Stolen minivan," Bill shot back. "Parked two blocks away, keys under the mat. Painted it soccer mom beige. Invisible." Molly high-fived him, but her smile faltered. "Bill, what if we get caught? Felony clowning? I'd look terrible in orange." He winked. "Then we pivot to the kids' table—blame it on the sugar rush. 'Honest, officer, the piñata made us do it.'" She chuckled despite herself, the absurdity sinking in. Planning a heist on hyper toddlers felt like robbing a zoo blindfolded. But with Bill's half-baked enthusiasm and her street smarts, it just might work. Or end in a pie fight. Either way, tomorrow's chaos would be legendary. As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across their war room, Molly packed the disguises—oversized bow ties and fake mustaches. Bill hummed a birthday tune off-key, dreaming of the payday. Little did they know, Timmy's party had a surprise guest: a retired cop uncle with a nose for nonsense. But for now, the thieves were locked and loaded, ready to unwrap some fun.