Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAS5ZDVYD2B16XZKYST22C

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a half-eaten pizza slice dangling from her fingers like a limp victory flag. Blueprints of the community center sprawled across the surface, marked up with red Sharpie doodles of cartoonish thieves in balaclavas. Bill paced behind her, his oversized trench coat swishing like a deflating balloon, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chilly autumn draft seeping through the window. "This is genius, Bill," Molly said, tapping a circled spot on the map. "The Little Timmy's Birthday Bash—full of spoiled brats and their guilt-ridden parents' guiltier gifts. Piñatas stuffed with cash equivalents, bikes wrapped in shiny paper. We swoop in, grab the haul, and vanish before the cake's even cut." Bill stopped pacing, rubbing his chin dramatically. "Swoop in how? We're not birds, Mol. And kids? They're like tiny watchdogs with sticky fingers. One scream, and it's chaos. Remember the pet store fiasco? We tripped over those hamsters and ended up owing the owner for therapy." Molly waved him off, her eyes gleaming with manic glee. "Details, schmetails. Plan's simple: You dress as the clown—rented that squirting flower getup online. I'll be the face painter, blending in with the artsy moms. We set up near the present pile, which, per my recon from the PTA Facebook group, is in the gym corner. At 2 PM sharp, when the games start, I cause a distraction—maybe 'accidentally' spill punch on the magician." Bill groaned, slumping into a chair that creaked in protest. "Punch? Last time you 'distracted' with food, we had to flee from angry vegans. And what if the clown suit rips? I look like a walking sausage in that thing." "Perfect camouflage!" Molly shot back, sketching a quick getaway route. "Parents love clowns. Honk your horn, juggle some balls—real ones, not the metaphorical kind—and while they're laughing, I'll stuff the swag into these duffel bags disguised as party favors. We exfiltrate through the back door by the bounce house. Kids'll be too busy bouncing to notice." He leaned in, peering at the map. "Bounce house? That's our cover? What if it deflates? Or worse, what if Timmy's got a guard dog disguised as a pony?" Molly snorted, flicking a pepperoni crumb at him. "No ponies, Bill—it's a unicorn theme. But fine, backup: You fake a pratfall into the cake. Total pandemonium. We grab and go. Think of the fence value—Xbox, dolls, that drone everyone's posting about. We're talking five figures easy." Bill paused, a sly grin cracking his worry lines. "Alright, but if I end up pied in the face for real, you're explaining it to the wife. Er, I mean, our 'handler.'" "Deal," she replied, rolling up the blueprints. "Tomorrow, we rehearse. No more cold feet—this heist's our big top break." As Bill nodded reluctantly, Molly's phone buzzed with a party invite confirmation. The clock ticked toward madness, and in the dim light, their shadows danced like awkward conspirators plotting the silliest score of the season.