Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9Y0TAG95QH8FRYFXMRYZS

Molly hunched over the scarred wooden table in their dingy apartment, a crumpled map of the neighborhood spread out like a defeated picnic blanket. Bill paced behind her, his lanky frame casting jittery shadows under the flickering bulb. A half-eaten pizza box sat forgotten in the corner, its greasy remnants a testament to their "strategy sessions." "Listen, Bill," Molly said, jabbing a finger at a circled address on the map. "This bash is gold. Little Timmy Turner's turning seven, and his folks are loaded. Piñatas stuffed with cash, a pony that probably costs more than our van, and presents piled higher than your ego." Bill stopped pacing and leaned in, squinting at the map like it held state secrets. "Presents? At a kids' party? Molly, that's genius. But how do we crash it without turning into piñata fodder? Those rugrats are vicious—tiny fists of fury." She smirked, pulling out a sketchpad filled with doodles of balloon animals and fake mustaches. "Disguises, dummy. We'll go as entertainers. You be the clown—fits your natural state of idiocy—and I'll be the magician. 'Abracadabra, hand over the gifts!' We'll slip in during the cake chaos, load up a gift bag we 'accidentally' bring, and poof—outta there." Bill scratched his chin, nodding slowly. "Clown, huh? I can juggle. Or at least drop things hilariously. What about the parents? They're the real bouncers. One wrong move, and we're explaining felony theft to a PTA meeting." "Exactly," Molly replied, her eyes gleaming. "That's why we time it for the games. Pin the tail on the donkey—blindfold the adults with spiked punch. You distract with balloon animals shaped like getaway cars. I'll magick the presents into our van parked as the 'ice cream truck' outside." He chuckled, but it turned into a snort. "Ice cream truck? Brilliant! Kids love that. 'Hey, kids, want a cone or your Xbox?' Nah, too on the nose. What if we rig the piñata? Fill it with sleeping gas or something? Nah, too sci-fi. We're thieves, not mad scientists." Molly rolled her eyes. "No gas, Bill. We're keeping it low-tech. Enter at 2 PM sharp, when the sugar rush hits. Grab the big-ticket items—bikes, gadgets, that drone everyone's buzzing about. Stuff 'em in duffel bags disguised as party favors. Getaway's key: You honk the van horn like a deranged calliope to cover the engine." "Got it," Bill said, mimicking a horn with his mouth—'Honk honk!'—and nearly knocking over the lamp. "But what if the pony kicks? Or worse, one of those balloon animals pops and alerts the cops?" "Then we improvise," she shot back, folding the map with a snap. "Blame the dog. Every heist needs a fall guy—literally. This haul could set us up for months, Bill. No more ramen nights." He grinned, clapping her on the shoulder. "You're the boss, Magician Molly. Operation Present Panic is a go. Just promise no real magic—I hate rabbits." As they high-fived, the pizza box toppled, spilling cheese strings across the floor like confetti from a botched heist. Molly laughed. "See? Practice makes perfect."