Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9MQCZSQYH09K0Q3A77KEJ

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, surrounded by crumpled maps of the neighborhood and a half-eaten pizza. Bill paced back and forth, his lanky frame casting jittery shadows under the flickering bulb. The target: a lavish birthday bash for some rich kid turning six, complete with a bounce house, face painters, and a mountain of presents that screamed easy cash on the black market. Molly's eyes gleamed with mischief as she tapped a pen against her chin. "Okay, Bill, listen up," Molly said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "We hit the party at peak chaos—piñata time. Kids are blindfolded, swinging like tiny lunatics. We'll be in and out before the cake's cut." Bill stopped pacing and leaned in, his mustache twitching. "In and out? With what, a clown car? We need disguises, Mol. I'm thinking balloon animals. I can twist a mean dachshund." She snorted, shoving a doodle of the venue toward him. "Balloon animals? You'll pop more egos than balloons. No, we're going as the entertainment. I dug up these old magician outfits from that flea market heist. Presto-chango, presents vanish!" Bill's eyes widened. "Magician? I can't do card tricks without flashing my suspenders. Remember the casino job? You pulled a rabbit out of my pants, and it bit the dealer!" Molly laughed, slapping the table. "That rabbit paid for this pizza! Fine, backup plan: catering staff. We wheel in a cart, load it with gifts under the tablecloth. 'Oops, spilled the punch—hand over the Legos!'" He rubbed his chin, grinning. "Catering could work. But what about the parents? Those PTA vultures will spot fakes a mile away. We need code words. Like, if I say 'cupcake avalanche,' you know it's go time." "Cupcake avalanche?" Molly echoed, rolling her eyes. "Subtle, genius. How about 'the piñata's pooping candy'? Nah, too on-the-nose. Just whistle 'Happy Birthday' off-key—that'll signal the grab." Bill paced again, mimicking a stealthy crouch. "Alright, entry: We park the van two blocks out, sneak through the hedges. I distract with bad dad jokes—'Why did the scarecrow win an award? He was outstanding in his field!'—while you snag the pile." She nodded, sketching a quick diagram. "Perfect. But the haul's gotta be sorted fast. Barbies for the collectors, gadgets for the fence. No toy trains—those things derail every plan." "Derail? Like your last diet?" Bill teased, dodging a thrown napkin. "One snag: the kid's got a guard dog. Some yappy Pomeranian named Fluffy. What if it sniffs us out?" Molly smirked. "Fluffy gets a sedative-laced treat. Call it a party favor. Worst case, we abort and crash the next shindig—there's always a baptism or bar mitzvah." Bill high-fived her. "You're a criminal poet, Mol. This'll be our masterpiece. Presents poached, kids none the wiser. To heist and hilarity!" As they clinked soda cans, the plan solidified in giggles and whispers, the absurd thrill of stealing joy from joyful chaos binding them tighter than any loot.