Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKDHG8BMP7WMHPFBTBTPQD

Molly adjusted her Santa hat, the jingle bell on the tip dangling precariously. "You sure this is the right house? The invite said ‘Pony Rides and Piñatas,’ not ‘Trap House for Cops.’" Bill squinted at the clipboard he’d swiped from the mailbox. "Says here the kid’s name is Timmy. And Timmy’s dad owns that jewelry store we cased last month. Coincidence? I think not." "Or," Molly said, "Timmy’s dad just really loves his kid. Ever think of that, Bill?" Bill scoffed. "Since when do you care about dads loving kids? Last week you pickpocketed a toddler’s lollipop." "That was an accident! And it was a *really* good lollipop." Molly sighed. "Fine. But if we’re doing this, we go in as the entertainment. I’ll be the magician, you be the clown." Bill’s face twisted. "I am *not* wearing a clown nose. Last time I did that, I got stuck in a ball pit for three hours." "Because you *ate the balls*, Bill." "They were *snack-sized*!" He rubbed his temples. "Okay, new plan. We pose as the caterers. Kids love food. We’ll blend in, grab the presents, and slip out before the cake’s even cut." Molly nodded. "I like it. But we need a distraction. Something big." Bill grinned. "I’ve got just the thing." He pulled a whoopee cushion from his pocket. Molly groaned. "You’re a grown man." "And you’re a woman who once stole a priest’s shoes during a sermon. Don’t judge." He inflated the cushion with a dramatic *pffft*. "We plant this on the host’s chair. When he sits down—*boom*—chaos. Kids scream, parents panic, we grab the loot." Molly considered it. "It’s stupid. But it might work." She pointed at the house. "There’s the back door. Kitchen’s probably right inside. We’ll say we’re early." Bill adjusted his fake mustache. "You realize we’re about to rob a bunch of six-year-olds, right?" Molly shrugged. "Kids are resilient. Besides, they’ll just think it’s part of the party. ‘Oh no, the presents are gone! Wait—is this a *game*?’" Bill chuckled. "You’re evil." "And you’re the one with the whoopee cushion." She nudged him. "Let’s go. And for the love of all things holy, *do not* eat any of the ball pit balls this time." Bill gasped, offended. "I *told* you, those were *snack-sized*." Molly rolled her eyes and pushed him toward the door. "Move, you overgrown child."