Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAVT9B73Q177KGTP0NRVB1

Molly leaned against the dingy warehouse wall, scribbling on a napkin. "Okay, Bill, listen up. This kids' party at the mayor's mansion is our ticket to payday. Balloons, cake, and a mountain of presents. We blend in as clowns—big shoes, red noses, the works." Bill chuckled, twirling a fake mustache. "Clowns? Molly, last time I wore a wig, I looked like a deranged poodle. But fine, what's the play? We crash during the piñata bash?" "Exactly," Molly said, grinning. "While the rugrats are whacking that candy mule, we slip into the gift room. You distract the parents with balloon animals—make 'em look like tax auditors or something hilarious." Bill snorted. "Tax auditors? That's gold. I'll twist one into the IRS logo. Then what? Grab the loot and bolt?" "Nah, too sloppy," Molly replied. "We stash the presents in oversized clown pants. I've got a pair that could hide a pony. Exit through the bounce house—deflate it on the way out for chaos cover." Bill nodded eagerly. "Genius! But what if some kid spots us? 'Hey, mister, that's my bike!'" Molly winked. "Easy. We juggle excuses: 'It's a magic trick!' Poof, we're gone with the goods. This'll be the heist of the century—presents galore, no fingerprints, just frosting on our shoes." Bill high-fived her. "You're a criminal mastermind, Mol. Let's make those kiddos' tears our retirement fund."