Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9MMAMZVG3D6NEGSMA7RPQ

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, her fingers tracing a crayon-scribbled map of the suburban backyard. The paper was a stolen party invitation, now annotated with red pen marks for entry points and escape routes. Bill paced behind her, chomping on a half-eaten burrito, his mustache twitching with excitement. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Stealing from adults was one thing—predictable, armored egos—but a children's birthday bash? That was either genius or suicidal. Molly figured genius, especially with the neighborhood's richest kid turning six. Presents piled high: bikes, gadgets, cash-stuffed envelopes. Easy score if they played it right. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, jabbing the map. "We hit the party at peak chaos—piñata time. Kids screaming, parents distracted with cake. You dress as the clown they hired. I slip in as the face-painter." Bill stopped mid-bite, salsa dripping onto his shirt. "Clown? Me? Molly, I got a face like a bulldog after a bad facelift. Kids'll scream before I even honk the nose!" She smirked, not looking up. "Exactly! Scares 'em into hiding the presents. Plus, the invite said 'Bozo the Magnificent.' You're magnificent at blending in—hideous and loud." He wiped his mouth, leaning over the table. His breath was a burrito fog. "Fine, but what if the real clown shows? I ain't fightin' some balloon-twistin' pro for my gig." Molly rolled her eyes, sketching a quick getaway path through the hedges. "We intercept him en route. Fake mustache swap or somethin'. You're the king of disguises—remember the bank job with the nun habit?" Bill snorted, plopping into a chair that creaked under his bulk. "That habit itched like hell, and the dye ran in the rain. Nearly drowned lookin' like a soggy ghost. This party's got a bouncy castle. How we smugglin' out a mountain of toys without poppin' the damn thing?" "Velcro panels on the sides," she replied smoothly, tapping the map. "We rig the castle as a decoy. Kids chase the 'magic treasure' inside while we load the van from the back. Presents go in black trash bags—label 'em 'balloon waste' so parents don't peek." He grinned, eyes lighting up. "Trash bags! Brilliant. But what about the dog? Invite mentioned a pony and a golden retriever. That mutt'll sniff us out faster than a cop on coffee." Molly straightened, grabbing a notepad to jot escape times. The clock ticked louder now, their heist just two days away. Bill's pacing resumed, knocking over a salt shaker. Superstition prickled her skin—bad omen? Nah, just clumsiness. "Poison the kibble? Kidding," she added at his glare. "We bribe the pony with apples, distract the dog with a squeaky toy. You handle animals—worked on that zoo caper." Bill laughed, a belly rumble. "Zoo caper? We stole flamingos and they crapped all over the getaway car! Cost us the haul in cleanup." "Details," Molly waved it off. "This is kids, Bill. No alarms, no guards. Just sticky fingers and sugar highs. We in, out, rich by bedtime." He nodded, finally still. "Yeah, but if a toddler rats us out? 'Mommy, the clown stole my drone!'" She chuckled, folding the map. "Then we improvise. Always do. Partners in pint-sized crime." Bill raised his burrito like a toast. "To the heist of the century—or the kiddie apocalypse." Outside, neighborhood kids' laughter echoed faintly, oblivious to the plotting duo. Molly felt the thrill bubble up—comedy gold, if they didn't end up in cartoon jail.