Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB39CZGPYA35RCJ52WNS6K

The abandoned ice-cream truck idled across from the community center, humming like a guilty conscience. Inside, Molly adjusted the squeaky red clown nose Bill had insisted on. It honked protest when she glared at her reflection in the freezer door. "I can't believe we're robbing a birthday party, Bill, today." "Think of it as redistributing joy, Molly, with better packaging." Streamers and stolen party hats littered the floor between lock-picking tools and a tangle of balloons. Bill, already half in costume, smeared white paint over his stubble with professional indifference. "You're planning to fence gift-wrapped glitter slime and action figures." "Never underestimate the resale value of limited-edition unicorn slime kits." "Okay, run the plan again before my conscience wakes up." "We enter as clowns, blend in, locate present table, liberate." Outside, shrieks of delighted children floated through the open serving window, muffled by the truck's faded decals. A banner across the street read HAPPY SIXTH BIRTHDAY, LUCAS in aggressive glitter. Molly squinted at it like it had personally wronged her. "Liberate is a strong word for petty, sugar-coated larceny, Bill." "Semantics aside, did you practice your balloon animal distraction technique?" "Yes, but all mine turn into snakes, even the giraffes." "Good, kids love snakes; parents love panicking about snakes cake." The plan was simple, which worried her more than the usual chaos. They weren't robbing a bank, or a museum, or even a mildly secure bake sale. They were about to infiltrate a suburb's idea of joy and politely take everything wrapped in dinosaur paper. "What about the security, the parents, the terrifying helium-powered decorations?" "I've timed the magician's act; everyone stares at card tricks." "Magicians are criminals with capes; we should recruit him instead." "Focus, Molly; you run chaos, I handle present extraction operations." Bill checked his watch, the only item on him that didn't squeak or sparkle. Molly shuffled through a stack of forged party performer contracts, each more ridiculous than the last. "And after, we donate half to that toy library charity." "Steal from the rich, give to the moderately underfunded—classic branding." "Also classic: us getting arrested by a six-year-old in sequins." "Relax; I did reconnaissance at last year's pony-themed fiasco, remember?" "You mean when you left with centerpieces and a pony?" "Allegedly; nothing was proven, except I look good riding away." In the cramped truck, the smell of cotton candy spray mixed with oil and faint desperation. A horn honked nearby, making both of them duck instinctively behind the ice-cream counter. "Fine, what about the cake knife, weapon or bargaining chip?" "We are not holding SpongeBob cake slices hostage for passage." "Then explain the duffel bag labeled 'Emergency Piñata Contingency Plan'." "If clowns fail, we go piñata inspectors—union regulations, very serious." "Only you could weaponize papier-mâché and bureaucracy in one afternoon." Molly peeked up, saw it was only a minivan packed with sugar-hungry guests, and exhaled slowly. Somewhere inside, a party whistle squealed, promising chaos; Molly suspected most of it would belong to them tonight anyway.