Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAAR87AXHRHYM0AD4BF4PX

The neon glow of the party store’s sign flickered like a dying firefly as Molly adjusted her oversized superhero cape—one she’d “borrowed” from a costume rental shop last Tuesday. It was the kind of cape that made her look like she’d been hit by a truck full of glitter, but tonight, it was the perfect disguise. Or at least, that’s what she told herself while tripping over the hem for the third time. Bill crouched behind a dumpster, his face half-hidden behind a fake mustache that had already started peeling at the corners. He held up a finger, then slowly pointed at the party store’s back door, which was propped open with a milk crate labeled “DO NOT TOUCH (Seriously, Dave).” The music from inside—some kid’s rendition of “Baby Shark” played on a kazoo—drifted out like a siren song for the greedy. “You sure this is the right place?” Bill whispered, though his voice carried the enthusiasm of a man who had already mentally spent half the loot on black-market tacos. Molly squinted through the gap in the dumpster. Inside, a table groaned under the weight of presents—wrapped in every color imaginable, some still bearing price tags like sad little confessions. A piñata shaped like a dragon (because of course) swayed ominously above a group of kids who looked like they’d already eaten three too many cupcakes. “Positive,” Molly said, though her tone suggested she was only half-convinced. “The owner, Gary, mentioned in his divorce settlement that he ‘couldn’t keep track of inventory’ anymore. Classic thief bait.” Bill adjusted his mustache, which was now clinging to his cheek like a sad, one-sided caterpillar. “And the security? You said there was none.” “There isn’t,” Molly said, though she’d only seen a single motion-activated light in the alley, which she’d already “disabled” by supergluing a rock to its sensor. “Gary’s idea of security is a chihuahua named Mr. Wiggles who barks at his own shadow.” Bill nodded, then hesitated. “What if the kids notice us?” Molly patted her utility belt, which was strapped so tightly it had left indentations in her hips. “Then we’ll be the coolest aunts they’ve ever met. ‘Hey kids! Wanna see a magic trick?’” She pulled a handful of glitter from her cape and let it rain down on the alley. “Boom. Distraction.” Bill watched the glitter settle on his head like a premature snowfall. “You realize we’re stealing from children, right?” Molly gasped, clutching her chest. “Bill! That’s the most moral thing you’ve said all week. I’m touched.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But let’s be real—these presents are just sitting there, waiting for some poor kid to open them and then forget about them in six months. We’re doing them a favor.” Bill opened his mouth to argue, but a sudden *thwack* made them both jump. The piñata had been struck—hard—and now it dangled, split open, revealing a cloud of crepe paper confetti and, more importantly, a clear path to the presents. Molly’s eyes lit up. “Now.” They moved like shadows, slipping through the back door just as a kid’s voice wailed, “IT’S NOT FAIR, THE DRAGON’S DEAD!” Molly grabbed a shopping cart and started loading it with presents while Bill “helped” by pretending to be a very enthusiastic party clown, tossing streamers and blowing bubbles to keep the kids distracted. “Look, kids!” Bill shouted, juggling three whoopee cushions. “Free balloons!” A little girl in a sparkly dress pointed at him. “You’re not supposed to be here!” Molly froze mid-grab, a giant stuffed unicorn dangling from her fingers. “Oh, honey,” she said, dropping into a crouch. “We’re actually the *real* party favors. Watch this.” She pulled a face and let out a sound that was supposed to be a donkey but came out more like a dying seagull. The kids giggled. Crisis averted. Bill, meanwhile, had already stuffed an armful of presents into his oversized clown pants. “You good?” he mouthed. Molly nodded, then grabbed a giant bag of candy and hurled it over her shoulder. “Let’s move.” They bolted for the door just as Gary’s chihuahua, Mr. Wiggles, let out a yip and gave chase. Molly turned, kicked a piñata stand, and sent it crashing into the dog, who yelped and retreated. “Nice work,” Bill panted, already counting their haul. “We’re rich.” Molly adjusted her cape, now thoroughly defeated. “We’re *almost* rich. Now we just have to get past the motion-activated light.” Bill looked at the rock still glued to the sensor. “Oh. Right.” They ran.