Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA3S0BJP0F22E3RB87VFF5

Molly hunched over the cluttered kitchen table in their cramped apartment, surrounded by crumpled party invitations, a half-eaten pizza, and a suspiciously large duffel bag. Bill paced back and forth, his eyes wild with the gleam of a man who'd just cracked the code to easy money. Pinatas dangled from the ceiling fan like macabre holiday ornaments, courtesy of Bill's "research trip" to the dollar store. "Listen, Moll," Bill said, slapping a glossy invite down. "Rich kids' birthday bash at the McMansion on Elm Street. Parents are loaded—tech bros and yoga influencers. Presents piled high: iPads, drones, those creepy robot dogs. We swipe 'em all, fence 'em by Monday. Boom, retirement fund!" Molly snorted, picking at a pepperoni. "Retirement? Last heist you called 'foolproof' left us dodging mall cops in elf costumes. Kids' party? Screaming brats, helicopter moms, and balloon animals that could double as witnesses." Bill grinned, unfazed, pulling out two garish clown wigs. "That's the genius! We go in as entertainers. I found this flyer: 'Clown duo wanted for gig.' We RSVP as 'Giggles and Grumbles.' Juggle, twist balloons into getaway cars, then—poof!—distract with the piñata smash. While candy flies, we stuff the sack." "Thirty screaming rugrats hyped on sugar?" Molly arched an eyebrow, but her lips twitched. "And the parents? One wrong balloon animal, and we're viral on TikTok: 'Clown Heist Fail.'" Bill waved it off, miming a dramatic flourish. "Timing's key. Cake-cutting at 3 PM—everyone's eyes on frosting. We rig the piñata with a quick-release bottom. Presents under the gift table? We 'accidentally' knock it over during the magic trick. Abracadabra, they're ours! Exit through the bounce house—zip line to the van disguised as the catering truck." Molly leaned back, crossing her arms. "Bounce house zip line? You couldn't zip your fly last week. What about security? Rich folks got cameras, dogs, maybe a nanny cam in the unicorn float." "Dogs love clowns!" Bill barked a laugh. "Peanut butter on the pies distracts Fido. Cameras? We wear these mirrored shades—reflect city. Nanny cam? Blame the ghost of parties past." He struck a pose, wig flopping sideways. She couldn't help chuckling. "Fine, genius. But if a kid pukes on my red nose, you're cleaning it. And no ad-libbing jokes about 'stealing the show'—too on the nose." Bill pumped his fist. "Deal! Rehearsal tonight: you juggle the pizza slices, I'll practice the sack toss." He scooped up the duffel, testing its heft. "This haul's gonna be legendary. Kids cry, we cash in—poetic justice!" Molly shook her head, grabbing a wig. "Poetic larceny, more like. Just don't trip over a toddler on the way out." As Bill launched into a wobbly juggling act with empty beer cans, the fan whirred overhead, piñatas swaying like conspirators. Outside, suburbia slumbered, oblivious to the clown apocalypse brewing. Tomorrow, Elm Street would never be the same—presents vanishing in a whirlwind of honks and helium. Heist o'clock.