Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAPAJCHVEZG8D62T0NJKTX

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, blueprints of the upscale suburban house spread out like a treasure map. Pinwheels and balloon doodles littered the edges, mocking the absurdity of their target: a kiddie birthday bash for some oil baron's spoiled spawn. Bill paced behind her, nursing a lukewarm coffee, his mustache twitching like it had a mind of its own. "Listen, Molly," Bill started, stopping to jab a finger at the diagram. "This ain't no museum job. We're talking snot-nosed brats, face paint, and a piñata full of candy that'll stick to the loot like glue." Molly grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She adjusted her oversized glasses, the kind that screamed "harmless librarian" but hid a safe-cracker's soul. "That's the beauty of it, Bill! Kids' parties are chaos central. No one's watching the presents when Elmo's singing off-key. We slip in as the caterers—I've got the uniforms from that wedding gig last month." Bill snorted, rubbing his chin. "Caterers? You mean those frilly aprons? I'll look like a deranged cupcake. And what about the clown? I heard he's got a black belt in balloon animals." She waved him off, circling a spot on the map with a red pen. "Forget the clown. We time it for the cake-cutting frenzy. You create a diversion—trip over a toy or something, draw the eyes. I'll hit the gift table: grab the shiny ones first, stuff 'em in the van. In and out in ten minutes, tops." He leaned in, squinting. "Diversion? Last time I 'diversed,' I ended up with a parrot on my head and the cops on speed dial. These presents—wrapped in glitter and bows—how do we haul 'em without rattling like a tambourine orchestra? And the kids? One screamer, and it's game over." Molly chuckled, stacking fake mustache props beside the plans. "We'll use those insulated duffels from the jewelry score. Muffle the noise. As for the rugrats, bribe 'em with extra cupcakes. 'Hey, kiddo, want a pony ride? Uncle Bill's got candy!' You're a natural with the little monsters." Bill groaned, but a smirk cracked his face. "Uncle Bill? You're killing me. Fine, but if that birthday boy spots us, I'm blaming your pie-in-the-sky schemes. What's the take? Designer dolls and Xbox-whatevers?" "Jackpot," she said, high-fiving him. "Resell on the dark web—easy five figures. Plus, the thrill of stealing joy from the one percent. We deserve it after that botched bakery heist." He nodded, folding the map. "Alright, partner. Tomorrow at noon. But if I end up in a bouncy castle, you're springing me solo." As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over their plotting den, Molly and Bill clinked mugs, the heist bubbling like illicit champagne. Little did they know, the real wildcard was a hyperactive piñata donkey with a vendetta.