Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9Y9X2AEKACXKR5VD12RAA

The community center on Maple Street pulsed like a beehive dipped in frosting, and Molly laid out blueprints on a pizza box while Bill tested the squeak of a rubber clown shoe. "Think of it as redistributing joy, but with better inventory control systems." Molly said. He eyed the kiddie banner flapping over the double doors; a cartoon dragon breathed soap bubbles that drifted across their stakeout car like glittery land mines. "I prefer jobs without confetti cannons, Mol. Last time I smelled unicorns." Bill said. Molly clicked a stopwatch, more for drama than timing, and produced a laminated schedule titled Operation Candle Melt, featuring stickers, color codes, and an ominous cupcake icon. "The invitation says two piñatas, three clowns, and a magician named Petite Steve." Molly said. Bill squinted at the map like it owed him money, nodding at arrows that led from the gift mountain to a side exit protected only by a cardboard castle and optimism. "Great, we’ll blend in as assistants and liberate packages during the finale elegantly." Bill said. He tugged on his borrowed vest, sequins protesting with every move; Molly uncapped a marker and began labeling rolling duffels with fake names like Aunt Mystery. "Elegance stops where sheet cake begins; we raid before candles get lit." Molly said. Through the window, a balloon arch arched harder than necessary, and a DJ sound-checked a playlist that seemed to be ninety percent bass and ten percent sugar. "What about the dragon mascot? That thing breathes bubble solution chemical warfare." Bill said. Molly flipped to a contingency page featuring doodled flames and a tiny extinguisher; beside it, she’d clipped a coupon for cupcakes, because morale and frosting are cousins anyway. "I bribed it with gummy worms. The handler thinks it’s a fundraiser for literacy." Molly said. Bill considered this, then pulled a compact mirror to practice his non-threatening smile; the mirror cracked a little under the strain but rallied with plucky resilience. "We are promoting literacy, specifically the fine print on return policies." Bill said. He rifled through a tote of disguises: a quiver of face brushes, googly eyes, rubber duck decals, and a foam tiara labeled Security that seemed sarcastic by design. "Blueprint: enter as balloon sculptors, exit as legends dragging rolling duffels stuffed triumphantly." Molly said. A child in a cape sprinted past the hedges, pursued by a parent wielding wet wipes with the haunted focus of a surgeon; both ignored the getaway van. "I’m allergic to balloons. They squeak like crime confessing itself to grandmothers at brunch." Bill said. Molly tossed him a palette and a foldable stool. He caught both with the reflexes of a raccoon near a compost bin and pretended it was elegance. "Fine, you’re the face painter. I’ll manage logistics and dramatic reveals myself." Molly said. "I can draw raccoons. Symbolism feels on-brand for moral ambiguity and snacks." Bill said. They bumped fists, thieves consecrating a plan with hand sanitizer, rolled toward destiny, which had juice boxes and nap time.