Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAN756NTB4XJZGV07W7M3X

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, her sharp eyes scanning a crumpled map of the suburban neighborhood. Bill paced behind her, twirling a fake mustache between his fingers like a deranged magician. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation—the kind that came from a string of botched jewelry scores and now this, their latest brainstorm: raiding a kiddie birthday bash for swag. "Listen, Bill," Molly said, jabbing a pencil at the map. "The party's at the Johnsons' place, 2 p.m. sharp. Piñata, cake, and a mountain of presents from doting aunts and uncles. We're talking iPads, bikes, and enough gift cards to fund our next vacation." Bill stopped pacing and leaned in, his eyes lighting up like a kid spotting candy. "Presents? At a children's party? Molly, you're a genius. But how do we blend in? I ain't dressing as a clown—that red nose makes me look like a drunk Rudolph." She smirked, sketching a quick diagram. "No clowns for you. You'll be the balloon man. Big hat, squeaky voice, handful of helium horrors to distract the rugrats. I'll pose as the face painter—turn those snot-nosed terrors into superheroes while you case the gift table." He chuckled, adjusting the mustache. "Face painter? With your steady hands from picking locks? You'll have 'em looking like Picasso's worst nightmare. Okay, in and out: I inflate chaos, you snag the loot. What about the parents? Those soccer moms are like guard dogs in yoga pants." Molly tapped her chin, her mind racing through contingencies. "We'll hit during games—when the adults are sipping punch and gossiping. Blindside 'em with cuteness. But if things go south, code word: 'Pinata emergency.' We bolt with the goods in my aunt's old minivan, parked two blocks away." Bill snorted, grabbing a cookie from the jar and munching thoughtfully. "Pinata emergency? That's gold. Imagine the headlines: 'Thieves Flee Kiddie Bash with Balloons and Booty.' But seriously, what if a kid rats us out? 'Mommy, the balloon man stole Timmy's drone!'" She rolled her eyes, but a grin cracked her tough facade. "Then you charm 'em, Bill. Tell 'em it's a magic trick—presents disappear and reappear in our getaway ride. Worst case, we ditch the disguises and play dumb: 'Who, us? We're just lost caterers.'" He flopped into a chair, tossing the mustache aside. "Lost caterers. I like it. You're the brains, Mol—I'm just the comic relief. One question: do we split the teddy bears fifty-fifty?" "Ha! You can have the stuffed animals; I'll take the tech. Deal?" She extended her hand, and he shook it vigorously, their laughter echoing off the peeling wallpaper. As the sun dipped low, they pored over the plan, tweaking details like pros. Molly felt the thrill bubbling up—this heist was ridiculous, but in their line of work, absurdity was the best disguise. Bill hummed a tune, already practicing his squeaky balloon voice. Tomorrow, the kids' paradise would become their payday jackpot.