Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK987N61Y6AN6PWT5NTY503

The van smelled like frosting and ambition, a questionable mix even for career mischief-makers. Molly had taped a hand-drawn blueprint of the community center to a pizza box, complete with arrows, exclamation points, and one doodle of a tyrannosaurus labeled Guardian Of Cake. Bill, wearing a sequined bow tie he insisted was “operational,” shuffled a stack of invitation flyers he’d rescued from a recycling bin, each one boasting a rainbow, a bouncy castle, and the ominous promise of supervised fun. "First rule," Molly said, tapping the pizza box, "never underestimate a seven-year-old with a whistle." "Agreed," Bill said. "Second rule: cupcakes are currency, icing is leverage." He spread the schedule across the dashboard like a treasure map nobody asked for, pointing at the 2:15 slot marked Piñata Extravaganza with the smug certainty of a man who had once lost a fight to streamers. "That's our window," he whispered. "Children are distracted by sanctioned whacking." Molly squinted. "We are not declaring war on papier-mâché." She traced a route with a marker that smelled like despair and grapes, circling the kitchen door, the coat rack, and the balloon arch billowing like a cumulonimbus built by party planners. "Disguises," she said. "We blend." Bill brightened. "Clowns or magicians?" "Parents are immune to clowns," Molly said. "They've built up tolerance." "Magicians it is," Bill declared, flipping the bow tie so it sparkled like a poor life choice. He produced a wand that was, upon inspection, a repurposed chopstick with glitter tape. "If anyone asks, we're the opening act," Molly said. "Illusions before delusions." She held up two lanyards fashioned from jump ropes and laminated index cards that read Volunteer, in handwriting confident enough to fool only someone very small or very trusting. "Entrance music?" Bill asked. "We need mystique." "Whatever the opposite of Baby Shark is," Molly said. "Gregorian chant?" They listened for a moment to the distant thump of tiny feet pogoing across inflated vinyl, the bassline of youthful chaos. "We need an exit plan," Bill murmured. "In case of, you know, glitter attack." "Confetti smoke bomb," Molly offered. "Bio-degradable." Bill flinched as a flock of balloons bumbled past the van window, shimmying like jellyfish in a cheerful current. "What about the ethics?" he said quietly. "Tiny people. Big feelings." Molly sighed, chewing the end of the despair-grape marker until it squeaked. "We don't take their joy," she said. "We redistribute ribbon-wrapped learning opportunities to a secret resale market of grandparents who forgot birthdays." "That's the worst justification I've ever loved," Bill said, grinning. He traced a line on the pizza box from the balloon arch to the coat rack and drew a starburst labeled Confidence, then another labeled Were You Raised Better Than This. "Okay," Molly said, tightening her ponytail like a battle standard. "We charm the gatekeeper, pretend we lost the rabbit, and never, ever accept face paint." Bill tapped the horn in a subdued, celebratory beep, the kind a very stealthy victory might make. "To the bouncy castle," he said.