Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAVCD1W7KC76SNFR0N4NSM

The dim dive bar’s sticky Formica table held a crumpled kids’ 7th birthday party flyer; Molly flipped a cherry lollipop between her fingers, Bill scribbled frantic notes in a tattered notebook. Molly slammed the flyer flat, the paper crinkling like a crushed cookie. “You still hung up on the bouncy castle obstacle I warned you about three days ago?” “Hang up? I’m haunted—last heist I tripped over a hula hoop and landed in a tub of lime Jell-O. Glitter’s worse—it sticks to your shoes, your jacket, your dental floss for weeks.” “Glitter’s a feature, not a bug—we’ll blast a giant bubble machine to mask our tracks; kids’ll think it’s an impromptu parade and swarm the bubbles instead of us.” “What about the kid labeled ‘Piñata Enforcer’ on the flyer? The mom’s note says he whacks anyone who touches his stuffed unicorn collection.” “Clown wigs—we’ll disguise ourselves as party entertainers; he’ll think we’re there to fix his unicorn’s torn horn and let us walk right by.” “Clown wigs? I told you about my 7th birthday—clown stole my remote control truck and cried when I chased him down the street. I still have nightmares about his squirting nose.” “Quit moping—here’s the present sorting list: toy cars in my waterproof duffel, stuffed animals in yours; no mixing, I hate fuzzy stuff sticking to my lockpicks.” “What about cookie crumbs on our leather gloves? Cops’ll test ’em and trace us to the bakery down the street where we bought our fake cupcakes last month.” “We’ll steal a tray of the party’s actual cupcakes first—distract the kids with free treats, then wipe our gloves on a paper towel bonfire in the backyard trash can.” “Escape route? The flyer says the backyard only has a spiral slide leading to an alley—what if a kid’s sliding when we bolt for the getaway bike?” “Trained ferret backup—his name’s Fizz; he’ll zip down the slide first, chase any lingering kids into the sandbox; he’s on a strict veggie diet so he won’t eat the candy-filled presents.” “Veggie diet? Last ferret we used ate three chocolate bars and passed out in a tourist’s purse. I don’t need that kind of drama again.” “This one’s a pro—he’s got a tiny harness for snatching small presents like toy soldiers. Now, soccer moms? We’ll set up a fake face paint station with non-toxic dollar store paint to occupy ’em for an hour.” “Non-toxic? What if a mom tests it on her lipstick and figures out it’s fake?” “She’ll think it’s just cheap party stuff; they’re too busy judging each other’s gluten-free snack platters to notice a couple of clown-disguised thieves.” “What’s my cut? I want all the remote control trucks—last heist you took the good ones and left me with a basket of singing baby dolls.” “Trucks are 30% of your cut; I get the stuffed unicorns for my niece’s birthday. Deal?” “Fine—but if Fizz eats a chocolate bar, I’m blaming you. And no more clowns unless I get a squirting confetti nose to make the kids laugh.” “Confetti nose’s yours—just don’t trip over the hula hoop this time; I don’t feel like fishing you out of a tub of Jell-O again.” Molly tossed a neon clown wig at Bill’s chest; he tugged it over his hood, scribbling a check next to “confetti nose” on his notes. A bar fly’s jukebox blared a lullaby, making Bill’s pen skid across the page where he’d written “glitter hazard” in bold ink. He sighed, shoving the notebook in his hoodie pocket, and nodded at Molly’s duffel bag leaning against the wall—its zipper stuck halfway, a peek of a lockpick glinting in the bar’s dim light. “One last thing,” Bill mumbled, “if the bouncy castle deflates mid-heist, I’m ditching you for the cupcake tray.” “Fair,” Molly said, popping the lollipop into her mouth, “but if you ditch me, I’m telling Fizz to hide all the remote control trucks in the sandbox.” Bill groaned, scribbling a cross next to “bouncy castle deflation” on his notes, while Molly tucked the party flyer into her pocket, already mentally mapping the present table’s most valuable toys.