Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA8FGFCZVB49MF2PSFSM3F

Molly adjusted her fake mustache in the cracked mirror of their rundown van, parked discreetly behind the suburban cul-de-sac. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation, but tonight's gig promised a haul of shiny, gift-wrapped loot. Bill, her partner in crime and eternal optimist, hunched over a crumpled blueprint of the McAllister house, where little Timmy's birthday bash was in full swing. Balloons bobbed outside, and the distant squeals of sugar-high kids echoed like a siren song for petty thieves. "Alright, Bill, spill it," Molly said, twirling a lockpick like a baton. "How do we crash this kiddie apocalypse without ending up in clown makeup?" Bill grinned, his gold tooth catching the dashboard light. "Simple, Mol. We go in as the entertainment. I've got these knockoff clown suits from that flea market heist last month. You be Bubbles the Clown, I'll be Wacky Wally. We juggle, we distract, and boom—presents vanish into our oversized pockets." Molly snorted, eyeing the blueprint. "Juggling? You can barely tie your shoes without tripping. And what about the parents? They're not idiots. One wrong move and we're dodging soccer moms with pepper spray." "Relax," Bill replied, waving a hand. "I've scoped it. The dad's grilling burgers out back, mom's glued to her phone. Kids are hyped on cake—pure chaos. We slip in during the piñata smash. You grab the gift table while I create a diversion. Maybe fake a balloon animal explosion." She raised an eyebrow. "Balloon animal explosion? That's your big idea? Last time you 'diverted,' we almost got nabbed by a schnauzer." Bill leaned back, crossing his arms. "Hey, that dog was vicious. But think about it: presents galore—toys, gadgets, maybe even cash envelopes. We fence 'em downtown, split the profits. Easy peasy." Molly paced the van's narrow aisle, her boots scuffing old pizza boxes. The plan was absurd, but that's what made their partnership work—Bill's wild schemes balanced by her sharp caution. Outside, party lights flickered, casting rainbow shadows. She imagined the stack of brightly wrapped boxes, ripe for the taking. A remote-control car here, a dollhouse there. Jackpot. "Fine, but we need an exit strategy," she said. "No lingering for cake. In and out in ten minutes. And if things go south?" Bill chuckled. "We abort and blame it on the ice cream truck. Yell 'Free cones!' and watch the stampede." Molly laughed despite herself. "You're an idiot, but okay. Let's do this. For the presents." They high-fived, the sound echoing in the van. Bill revved the engine softly, pulling closer to the house. As they donned their clown wigs, Molly felt the familiar thrill of the heist bubbling up. Kids' parties were unpredictable, but so were they. With a final nod, they stepped out into the night, ready to turn birthday cheer into their payday. The McAllister gift pile wouldn't know what hit it.