Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAZFB0VVXKHTBBN1FA3TB4

Molly hunched over the rickety kitchen table in their cramped apartment, surrounded by crumpled maps of the suburbs and a half-eaten pizza. Bill paced back and forth, his lanky frame casting jittery shadows from the flickering bulb overhead. The target: little Timmy's eighth birthday bash at the upscale McMansion on Elm Street. Presents galore—Xbox consoles, bikes, that new drone everyone's buzzing about. Easy score, if they didn't screw it up. "Listen, Bill," Molly said, tapping a photo of the house torn from a party invite. "We go in as entertainers. I've got the clown costumes from that Halloween sale. Red noses, big shoes. Kids'll think we're part of the fun." Bill stopped pacing and scratched his stubbled chin. "Clowns? Mol, I look ridiculous in makeup. Last time I tried face paint, it came off on the pizza delivery guy. What if some rugrat spots the fake smile and freaks?" She rolled her eyes, sketching a quick floor plan on a napkin. "That's the point, genius. Chaos is our cover. While the parents are distracted by balloon animals and bad magic tricks, we scoop the gift table. Bags under the table—black trash ones, labeled 'lost and found' or something innocuous." He leaned in, eyes widening like a kid spotting candy. "Bags under the table? Brilliant! But what about the piñata? I heard it's loaded with candy and, get this, gift cards. We could whack it open early, blame a hyper toddler." Molly snorted, crossing her arms. "No way. Piñatas scream 'stick to the plan.' We're not here for sweets; we're after the haul. Presents only. You handle the diversion—tell knock-knock jokes or juggle pies. I'll grab and dash to the van parked two blocks away." Bill grinned, mimicking a juggle with invisible balls. "Jokes? Okay, like: 'Knock knock.' 'Who's there?' 'Interrupting cow.' 'Inter—' MOO! Kids love that. But the dog—Mrs. Hargrove's got that yappy terrier. What if it sniffs our sacks?" "Peanut butter," she shot back, pulling a jar from the fridge. "Smear it on the presents to throw the mutt off. Or better, distract it with a squeaky toy. We've got one in the prop box." He chuckled, slapping his knee. "You're a criminal mastermind, Mol. But escape? Cops might show if things go south. Fake mustache for me? Or we pose as uncles picking up early?" She shook her head, folding the napkin plan. "No relatives. We bolt through the backyard hedge—it's got a gap to the alley. Van's gassed up, plates swapped. In and out in fifteen. Divide the loot fifty-fifty, sell online. Easy retirement fund." Bill high-fived her, but his hand slipped, knocking over the pizza box. "Fifteen minutes? With screaming brats and cake fights? This'll be the heist of the century—or the clown show from hell!" Molly laughed, straightening the mess. "That's why it's gold, Bill. Kids' parties are loot piñatas waiting to burst. Just don't trip in those floppy shoes." As the night deepened, their whispers turned to excited murmurs, the absurd plan solidifying like a bad joke turned punchline. Tomorrow, Elm Street would never see its gifts again.