Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5BB440FS83HS54F85W0QC

Molly squinted at the crude blueprint Bill had drawn on a napkin. It was mostly a square with a wobbly circle labeled ‘PUNCH’ in one corner. “Let entire plan hinges on you dressing as a clown.” Bill adjusted the rainbow-colored wig, which was already starting to slip clown, Molly. *The* clown. Corky the Unforgettable. I’m the diversion. A masterpiece of misdirection. While I’m over there making balloon poodles that look vaguely like upset anteaters, you’ll be over there—” he pointed a giant gloved finger at a sad-looking ‘X’ on the napkin “—liberating the gift table.” “Liberating,” Molly repeated, deadpan. “From a six-year-old named Timmy.” “Timmy’s a tyrant in Velcro sneakers. He deserves it.” Bill practiced a few sluggish juggling motions with three brightly colored balls. He immediately dropped one, which rolled under the rusted patio table. “See? Humanizing. Relatable. They’ll love me.” “They’ll be terrified of you. You look like a nightmare that fell through a paint mixer. And what’s your exit strategy? ‘Corky’ can’t just sprint away with a sack of toys.” Bill tapped the side of his nose, smearing white greasepaint. “Ah! The beauty part. The big finale. I get in my little clown car.” He gestured to a horrifically tiny, cherry-red convertible that was parked crookedly on his lawn. “I pop the trunk for my ‘magic box’ trick. You pop *you* and the loot into the trunk. I take a bow, and we zip off into the sunset.” Molly stared at the car. “Bill. That car is for show. It doesn’t have an engine. You push it in parades.” “Details! The neighborhood is flat. I’ll build up a good head of steam downhill.” “And the trunk? It’s approximately the size of a shoebox. Are you planning to fold me like a fitted sheet?” “It’s bigger than it looks!” Bill insisted, wobbling over to the car. He yanked on the trunk latch. It didn’t budge. He yanked again, grunting. “It’s… it’s stuck. Probably swollen from the rain. We’ll grease the hinges. You’ll be fine. A little cozy, maybe.” “I’m not getting in the trunk of a non-functional clown car, Bill. That’s not a heist, it’s a cry for help.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “New plan. I go as the overly enthusiastic aunt no one remembers inviting. I mingle. I critique the charcuterie board. I stuff the presents into a giant purse.” Bill looked devastated. “But… Corky…” “Corky is a liability. You can be my getaway driver. A *normal* driver. In a *normal* car. With a functioning engine and a trunk I can actually breathe in.” Bill sighed, his giant red foam nose drooping. “So, no balloon animals?” “You can make me one after we’ve successfully fenced a Lego Death Star.” Molly stood up, brushing donut crumbs from her shirt. “Now, go wash your face. You’re starting to look like a sad melting snowman, and it’s breaking my heart.”