Run: 2026-03-12-01KKHYRKW7379BZ4EW3K2CX07N

Molly adjusted her oversized sunglasses and peered through the bakery window at the colorful chaos inside the community hall. "This is the dumbest idea you've ever had, Bill. And you've had some real winners." Bill grinned, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain with arthritis. "Come on, Mol. Think about it. Twenty screaming kids, one distracted mom in a paper crown, and a mountain of brightly wrapped presents just sitting there like they're begging to be liberated. It's practically charity work." "Charity? For who, exactly? The Bank of Bill's Gambling Debts?" Molly hissed, pulling him behind a parked minivan covered in soccer ball stickers. "We're not stealing from children. Even I have standards." "They're not using the presents yet," Bill whispered, his voice taking on that wheedling tone that always meant trouble. "The party's just starting. We slip in during musical chairs, create a diversion with the piñata, and poof. In and out. Like ninjas. Wealthy ninjas." Molly stared at him. "Ninjas who steal Barbie dreamhouses and plastic dinosaurs. We're hitting rock bottom here." "Rock bottom has excellent parking," Bill countered. "Look, that clown they hired looks about two minutes from a nervous breakdown. We wait for him to start his balloon animal routine, then I accidentally knock over the punch bowl. Total pandemonium. You grab the gift table while everyone's slipping on fruit punch and crying." "You're suggesting we ruin some poor kid's birthday for a pile of plastic junk and gift cards to Build-A-Bear." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "My mother would be so proud." "Your mother once stole the collection plate at church," Bill reminded her. "This is practically respectable by comparison. Besides, we're not keeping everything. We'll donate the boring educational toys to charity. I'm not a monster." Molly looked at him for a long moment, then sighed the sigh of someone who knew she was going to regret this until her dying day. "Fine. But if we get recognized by a bunch of six-year-olds, I'm throwing you under the bus. Literally. I'll tell them you hate ponies." Bill's face lit up like he'd just won the lottery. "That's the spirit! Okay, phase one: acquire disguises. I was thinking parent clothes. You can be the stressed mom with the wine headache, I'll be the dad who's pretending to care about this crap." "Bill." "Yeah?" "We're burning in hell for this." "Probably," he admitted cheerfully, linking his arm through hers as they headed toward the side entrance. "But at least we'll have a new Xbox. Happy early Christmas to us." Molly muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for forgiveness as they slipped through the door, the distant sounds of "Happy Birthday" already echoing from inside like a warning they had no intention of heeding.