Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAW2WGHMYWYA41GQ3XZTF1

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, a crumpled map of the upscale neighborhood spread out like a defeated picnic blanket. Bill paced behind her, his oversized trench coat swishing comically with each step, as if he were auditioning for a spy parody. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation, but their eyes gleamed with the kind of mischief that only comes from plotting against the innocent. "Look, Bill, it's perfect," Molly said, jabbing a finger at a circle she'd drawn around Elmwood Manor. "Rich parents throwing a birthday bash for little Timmy or whatever. Balloons, cake, and a mountain of presents that'll make our eyes water. We swoop in, grab the loot, and vanish before the piñata even bursts." Bill stopped pacing and leaned in, his bushy eyebrows knitting together like wooly caterpillars in a brawl. "Swoop in? Molly, it's a kids' party. There'll be clowns, face paint, and a horde of sugar-rushed munchkins. One wrong move, and we're dodging sticky fingers and water balloons. What's the entry plan? Parachute from the roof?" Molly snorted, sketching a crude diagram of the backyard. "Nah, too flashy. We'll pose as entertainers. You know, the balloon animal guy. I saw this tutorial online—twist a few dachshunds, keep 'em busy. Meanwhile, I'll be the 'gift coordinator,' shuffling boxes to the van under the guise of organizing the pile." Bill chuckled, but it came out more like a wheeze. "Balloon animals? Me? Last time I tried that, it looked like a deflated giraffe with a grudge. And what if some pint-sized detective asks for a unicorn? I'll end up popping the whole operation." "Improvise!" Molly shot back, her voice rising with excitement. She mimed twisting an invisible balloon, nearly knocking over her coffee mug. "Distract with dad jokes. 'Why did the present go to school? To get wrapped up in learning!' Boom, they're laughing, not looking." Bill rubbed his chin, eyeing the map suspiciously. "And the getaway? The driveway's probably crawling with minivans and soccer moms with yoga pants tighter than our alibis. We need a diversion. Maybe release a flock of pigeons? Or better—fake a unicorn sighting. Kids go nuts for that mythical crap." Molly's eyes lit up. "Pigeons? From where, your pocket? No, stick to the plan: You herd the kiddos for games, I load the van. Timer on your watch—ten minutes tops. If things go south, signal with the chicken dance. No one questions a fool in a clown suit." "Chicken dance?" Bill groaned, but a grin cracked his face. "Fine, but if I end up with cake in my hair and a balloon sword duel scar, you're buying the dry cleaning. This heist better net us enough for a real vacation, not another motel crawl." As the sun dipped low outside their grimy window, Molly folded the map with a flourish, her mind already racing through the chaos. Bill cracked his knuckles, ready to embrace the absurdity. In the world of petty crime, nothing beat turning a toddler's joy into jackpot gold—provided they didn't trip over a tricycle first.