Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAS7ZCSJTJ968A4KA60BQQ

They huddled in a supply closet that smelled like lemon cleaner and frosting, between a crate of paper crowns and a wobbling tower of plastic cups. Through the slats of the door, warbling karaoke drifted from the gym, punctuated by the squeak of sneakers and an occasional kazoo. "Okay, ethical inventory: how bad is it to confiscate gifts from tiny humans who believe cake is a food group?" "On the mischief-to-morality axis, it’s a wobbly six; mitigating factors include glitter exposure and probable surplus of socks." "Socks are the true villains; we’re rebalancing the textile economy with daring and possibly a kazoo-based alibi." "Alibis are for people who get caught; we are people who blend, like chameleons in a ball pit." "Then we infiltrate as balloon artists, sculpting plausible dachshunds while casually befriending the gift table." "I can twist a worm and call it minimalist sculpture; children respect avant‑garde sincerity and snacks." "Distraction package: compliment the cake, gasp at the candles, initiate a conga line; the gifts slip away, dignified, unseen." "Yes, clipboard, stern nods, 'Ma’am, that unicorn piñata is noncompliant with sparkle codes'; chaos blossoms, parcels migrate." "Speaking of parcels, that duffel is labeled 'Emergency Decorations'; nobody suspects tinsel of ulterior motives." "What about the clown, Bill? Never underestimate a professional with pockets full of honking devices and truths." "Rule One: never lock eyes with a clown; Rule Two: compliment the shoes; Rule Three: run if the shoes squeak Morse." "I negotiate in crumbs; I’ll broker a peace accord between chocolate and vanilla, with sprinkles as neutral observers." Somewhere beyond the door, a chant began—cake, cake, cake—rising like a tiny revolution. Bill adjusted a paper crown onto his head with absolute sincerity. Molly straightened her tie, which had small penguins engaged in suspicious activities. Their stomachs grumbled. "Timing-wise, we move when the piñata bursts and confetti eclipses the sun; that’s our philanthropic twilight." "I brought safety goggles; last time a jelly bean achieved escape velocity and questioned my life choices." "Inventory the duffel: tissue paper decoys, thank-you-note seeds, one emergency bow tie, and a noisemaker shaped like a platypus." "I also packed compassion; it’s mostly bubble wrap and a coupon for ten percent off remorse." "If a child asks questions, we tell the truth: we are Gift Relocation Specialists ensuring optimal joy dispersion." "And if a parent inquires, we report a ribbon recall and offer to humanely quarantine festive hazards." "Peak 'Grandma Went Too Far,' elevation: five battery warnings and a size chart nobody believes." "My pocket also contains a moral compass; it spins near cupcakes, which feels like an omen." "Ready? Smile like you’re here for joy audits and balloon compliance." "Remember, if a toddler latches onto your leg, that’s diplomacy; do not negotiate with juice boxes." They eased the door open. Music and sugar rushed in. The corridor glittered under streamers, and a balloon dog regarded them with troubling wisdom. With their smiles fastened on like name tags, they stepped into the bright, ridiculous battlefield of delight.