Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9T60KKN58HXSZ6B1P0RF6

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a crumpled party invitation spread out like a treasure map. Bill paced, munching on a stale doughnut, crumbs dusting his rumpled shirt. The plan was audacious: crash little Timmy's birthday bash at the community center and swipe the pile of presents before the cake was cut. "Listen, Bill," Molly whispered, eyes gleaming. "It's perfect. Kids are distracted by games, parents are boozed up on punch. We slip in as caterers—voilà, gift grab!" Bill snorted, nearly choking on his bite. "Caterers? You? Last time you 'catered,' we burned down the safe house microwave. And what about the snot-nosed brigade? One whiff of trouble, and it's a toddler stampede." Molly grinned, sketching a crude diagram. "That's why we use the piñata ploy. You swing the stick as the clown—" "Clown? I'm allergic to face paint! It'll be a sneezing catastrophe," Bill interrupted, waving his arms. "And the presents? They're wrapped like mummies. We'll be tearing paper while balloons pop and some kid screams bloody murder." "Exactly! Chaos covers us," Molly shot back. "In and out in ten minutes. Think of the haul—Xbox, bikes, cash-stuffed cards. We're talking retirement, partner." Bill paused, doughnut forgotten. "Fine. But if a unicorn bounce house deflates on me, you're hauling the loot solo." Molly laughed. "Deal. Operation Party Pooper starts at noon."