Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08SHWE5E3F08MD589Q623B

They sat in the back booth of the greasy spoon diner, nursing cups of coffee that had long gone cold. Molly stirred hers absently, her eyes flicking over the sticky menu that hadn’t been updated since disco was king. Opposite her, Bill examined a slice of pie with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert. He poked at the congealed whipped cream with his fork, sending a glob of it oozing onto the plate. "You’re making me nervous when you poke at food like that," Molly said, finally breaking the silence. She nudged her cup towards him in a silent offer to share the sugar packets he was hoarding in his fist. Bill slid them over without a word, as if the sugar was radioactive. "Look, it’s foolproof," Molly continued, unfurling a crumpled flyer she’d swiped from the community board outside the grocery store. The words *Timmy’s 6th Birthday Bash!* were emblazoned across the top in crayon. "All the parents will be busy with the kids, the presents will be piled up like a treasure chest, and no one will be the wiser." Bill dragged the pie closer to him, as if it could shield him from Molly’s enthusiasm. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and said, "And how exactly do we explain to the police why we’ve got a sack full of My Little Ponies and remote control cars?" Molly waved a dismissive hand. "We say we’re antique collectors. Nostalgic types. That’s why everything’s in pristine condition." Bill snorted. "Yeah, because a six-year-old’s idea of ‘pristine’ is the exact same thing a sixty-year-old thinks it is." He shoveled another bite into his mouth, then pointed his fork at her. "Also, what if there’s a clown?" Molly groaned. "Please tell me you’re joking." "I’m not." Bill’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "A clown is a wildcard. One minute they’re passing out balloons, the next they’re challenging you to a game of pin the tail on the donkey with a knife." He mimed throwing a tail over his shoulder, nearly knocking over the salt shaker. It wobbled but stayed upright. Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. We neutralize the clown." "How?" "We buy him off. Twenty bucks says he’ll go hit up the hot dog stand across the street." Bill frowned. "Why would he even be there? Clowns don’t usually gatecrash kid parties. They get *hired* to gatecrash kid parties." Molly let out a sharp laugh. "Okay, first of all, that’s terrifying. Second, if you’re so worried about the clown, we’ll just scope out the party beforehand. Blend in. Bring a kid. *You* dress up as the clown." Bill’s fork froze mid-air. "Absolutely not." "Chicken." "I’m not chicken. I’m *responsible*." He stabbed a chunk of pie and held it up like evidence. "In case you’ve forgotten, last time we tried to blend in, we brought fake IDs that said we were a construction worker and a dental hygienist." He chewed with exaggerated force. "We don’t even know what a dental hygienist *does*." Molly grinned. "Exactly. No one else did either, so it worked perfectly." Bill rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a small smile. "This is going to go horribly wrong." Molly leaned forward, her voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. "That’s why it’s a *heist*, Bill. If it wasn’t risky, it wouldn’t be fun." She raised her coffee cup in a toast. "Besides, think of all the macaroni art we’ll be funding." Bill clinked his cup against hers with a resigned sigh, watching the grease-stained liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. "Next time, *you* plan the heist." Molly winked. "Deal."