Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9FXCNYHWA9RBF48S1H8P2

From the passenger seat of a van decorated with accidental cupcake stickers, Molly watched a flotilla of balloons pitching above the third house on the cul-de-sac. The party roared like miniature thunder, squeals echoing off the inflatable ramparts of a rented castle. Bill balanced a clipboard on his knees, its paper stained with frosting fingerprints and ambition. On the dashboard, their plan was taped in crayon: arrows, stars, a cartoon of a gate labeled DOOR, and a stick-figure dinosaur with a sad hat. "You brought a blueprint of the bouncy castle, not the house." She flicked the sketched turrets; the page boinged faintly in response. "It has walls, Molly. Wobbly walls. We adapt, we improvise, we bounce." Bill grinned as if boinging paper vindicated higher education. He had pasted googly eyes on their ski masks because, he argued, whimsy discouraged witnesses from accurate describing. Outside, a parent tried to anchor balloons to a hedge; the balloons politely declined and ascended like gossip. "We are not catapulting through a rainbow arch to annex gift bags." She checked her watch, which had a sticker of a strawberry and, for reasons she preferred not to unpack, a tiny cape. Their window was narrow: pinata before cake, cake before chaos, chaos before parental song. They specialized in the kind of theft that produced no villains—only baffled toddlers who later believed a unicorn had needed emergency gifting. "Annex is classy. Also, the clown hired is allergic to helium." Bill flipped to a second page, where he had drawn a flowchart involving balloons, cupcakes, and a stop sign labeled Aunt Matrix. He tapped the stop sign solemnly. "So we’re the replacement clowns, sans squeaky noses, plus strategic gift relocation." Molly stretched her shoulders and slid on the vest with hidden pockets that squeaked softly because everything, tonight, squeaked. The vest had been red once; now it was the color of strategy and spilled punch. She imagined walking into sunlight with a tower of wrapping paper under each arm while distant choirs of kazoo angels attempted Handel. "Exactly. We juggle decoy cupcakes, then exit with the loot confetti-calm." He presented a tray with three cupcakes, each wearing a suspiciously shiny cherry. She raised an eyebrow. He shook his head. Not explosives, his shrug promised; merely extremely persuasive sugar. "Decoy cupcakes attract children, Bill; children are swarm-based, like adorable piranhas." Across the street, the birthday kid shouted with the tyranny of royalty. A bubble machine coughed rainbows. A piñata unicorn swayed from a maple like a decorated snitch. "Hence plan B: balloon herd, drift their attention, drift ourselves elsewhere." "Balloons squeal, doors creak, parents speculate, and then comes the interrogating aunt." "I’ve neutralized aunts before—with small talk about Montessori and sustainable glitter." "If she asks who we are, your clown name is Professor Sprinkles." "Fine, but you’re Executive Cupcake, CFO of Confections, fearless in frosting." "Also, no glitter grenades; evidence sparkles for weeks and invites questions from everyone." They snapped suspenders, squared smiles, and stepped into weaponized whimsy.