Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9Z94SJ0BX5SEK5E8WT1WB

Molly paced the dimly lit motel room, a crumpled blueprint of the McAllister mansion spread across the bed like a treasure map drawn by a drunken pirate. Bill lounged on a creaky chair, munching on a stale doughnut, his eyes wide with skepticism. "Alright, Bill, this is the big one," Molly said, jabbing a finger at the diagram. "The party's tomorrow afternoon. Rich kids, spoiled brats—think of the presents! iPads, bikes, those fancy drone things. We'll slip in, grab 'em all, and vanish like ghosts at a birthday bash." Bill snorted, crumbs flying. "Ghosts? Molly, we're not exactly Casper material. I'm six-foot-five and you're allergic to subtlety. How do we even get in? Crash the clown car?" She grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Exactly! I've got us disguises. You'll be Bozo the Clown—big shoes, red nose, the works. I'll be the magician's assistant. We'll blend right in with the chaos." "Bozo? Oh, hell no," Bill groaned, tossing the doughnut aside. "Last time I wore a costume, I tripped over my own feet and face-planted into a wedding cake. Remember Aunt Gladys's reception? We were supposed to lift the silverware, not become the entertainment." Molly laughed, rolling her eyes. "That was hilarious! But this is different. The party's in the backyard—tents, games, a bouncy castle. Parents are clueless, sipping mimosas. We sneak to the gift table, load up the sacks—I've got Santa-sized ones—and bolt through the side gate." Bill leaned forward, squinting at the blueprint. "What about security? Rich folks like McAllister probably have cameras, alarms, maybe a guard dog named Killer." "Pfft, Killer's a poodle," Molly shot back. "And the cameras? We'll hack 'em with that gadget you stole last month. As for alarms, we cut the power to the tent. Boom—darkness, confusion, kids screaming. Perfect diversion." Bill rubbed his chin, a sly smile creeping in. "Screaming kids? That's our soundtrack? You're a twisted genius, Mol. But what if one of those rugrats spots us? 'Mommy, the clown's stealing my unicorn scooter!'" "Then we improvise!" Molly exclaimed, punching his arm. "You juggle some balls, I pull a rabbit out of a hat—distract 'em. If things go south, we blame it on the piñata bandit. Everyone knows piñatas are shady." Bill chuckled, shaking his head. "Piñata bandit? You're killing me. Fine, I'm in. But if I end up with cake in my wig again, you're buying me new shoes." "Deal," Molly said, high-fiving him. "Now, let's rehearse. You be the kid: 'Hey mister, that's my present!'" Bill puffed out his cheeks in mock innocence. "Hey mister, that's my present! Gimme back my robot!" Molly mimed snatching an invisible box. "Sorry, kiddo, but this robot's got a date with eBay. Now scram before I turn you into a frog!" They both burst out laughing, collapsing onto the bed amid the blueprints. The plan was absurd, risky, and utterly ridiculous—but that's what made it fun. Tomorrow, the McAllister party would never know what hit it. Or rather, who Bozo-ed it.