Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB0WRGJ0YNCQK8ZQ7N66R5

Molly paced the dimly lit motel room, her wild curls bouncing like over-caffeinated squirrels. Bill slouched on the sagging bed, scribbling on a napkin with a crayon he'd swiped from a diner. The air smelled of stale pizza and desperation, but their eyes gleamed with the thrill of the absurd heist ahead. "Alright, Bill, listen up," Molly said, cracking her knuckles. "This kids' party is our golden ticket. Rich folks, tons of presents stacked like a pyramid of greed. We're talking bikes, dolls, video games—enough loot to retire to that island with the monkeys." Bill looked up, his bushy eyebrows forming a unibrow of skepticism. "Monkeys? Molly, you mean Bermuda? And ain't this kinda low? Stealin' from kiddos? My ma would roll in her grave, and she's still alive." Molly snorted, flopping onto the bed beside him. "Low? It's genius! Kids parties are chaos central—screaming brats, distracted parents, clowns everywhere. We'll blend right in. You dress as the clown, I'll be the magician's assistant. Poof! Presents vanish." Bill chuckled, waving the crayon like a wand. "Me, a clown? With this mug? Last time I wore makeup, the mirror cracked. And what if there's a piñata? I hate candy rainin' down while I'm stuffin' sacks." "Focus, you big lug," Molly shot back, grabbing the napkin. "See this? The Johnson's mansion. Back door by the bouncy castle. We slip in during the cake cutting—everyone's singin' 'Happy Birthday,' eyes on the flames. I create a diversion: 'Oh no, the pony's loose!' You grab the gifts, haul 'em to the van disguised as a cotton candy truck." Bill rubbed his chin, grinning. "Cotton candy truck? Where'd ya get that idea? And what about security? Rich folks got cameras, alarms, maybe attack poodles." "Poodles? Bill, you're killin' me," Molly laughed, punching his arm. "No poodles. Just a nanny cam or two. We hack it with that gadget from Gino—turns feeds to reruns of cartoons. Kids'll think it's part of the fun. 'Look, SpongeBob's stealin' presents!'" Bill leaned back, eyes widening. "Gino's gadget? That thing shorted out last job and set off fireworks in the bank vault. We almost became human sparklers! Nah, let's go old school. You flirt with the dad, I bribe the caterer. Slip some sleepy-time tea in the punch—adults nod off, kids too hyper to notice us wheelin' out the haul." Molly rolled her eyes. "Flirt with the dad? He's probably got a comb-over and a beer gut. Fine, but if he gets handsy, you're bailin' me out. And sleepy-time tea? What if the kids drink it? We ain't puttin' toddlers to nap forever—that's bad karma." "Bad karma? Stealin' presents is already karmic roulette," Bill retorted, folding his arms. "Okay, compromise: I go as the balloon guy. Twist some animals, cause a distraction with a balloon explosion. Pop! Chaos! You snatch the gifts while they're duckin' latex shrapnel." Molly clapped her hands. "Brilliant! Balloon apocalypse. But make sure they're helium—floatin' presents would be a nightmare. And Bill, no eatin' the cake. Last heist, you gorged on donuts and couldn't run." "Hey, those were Bavarian cream! Irresistible," Bill protested. "Alright, deal. We hit at noon tomorrow. In and out, richer than Santa on payday." Molly high-fived him. "To the monkey island!" As they laughed, the napkin plan fluttered to the floor, already smudged and ridiculous. But in their world, ridiculous was just another word for opportunity.