Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5JENH39GSSV36PHH9EJ91

The back of the stolen catering van smelled of stale egg salad and regret. Molly, her frizzy red hair escaping a hairnet of questionable hygiene, scowled at a diagram scrawled on a napkin. Bill, a mountain of a man crammed into a ridiculously small floral apron, was trying to wedge a tranquilizer dart gun into a hollowed-out baguette. “The dart goes in the bread,” Bill mumbled, his tongue poking out in concentration. “The bread goes in the basket. The basket goes to the party. Simple.” “It’s not simple, Bill,” Molly snapped, without looking up from her napkin. “Your ‘simple’ last month involved a kangaroo and a missing Fabergé egg. I still have nightmares about the pouching.” She tapped the napkin. “The problem is perimeter security. Little Timmy’s seventh birthday is a fortress. Chuck E. Cheese’s has nothing on a suburban mom hyped on organic juice boxes and the fear of gluten.” Bill finally succeeded with the baguette, looking immensely pleased with himself. “So we go in disguised. We’re caterers. We blend.” He gestured to his apron, which barely covered his sternum. “See? Blending.” “You look like a grizzly bear that mugged a kindergarten teacher. We’re not blending, we’re causing concern.” Molly sighed, massaging her temples. “We need a better angle. The presents will be in the ‘Gift Nook,’ which is just the living room corner with a strategically placed ficus. But it’s directly in the sightline of the birthday boy’s father, ‘Dave.’ Dave will be manning the grill, a sacred duty he takes with the seriousness of a bomb disposal expert. One misstep with a veggie dog and the whole operation goes kaput.” “So we distract Dave,” Bill said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “How? Offer him a better cut of meat? He’s a vegan grillmaster, Bill. His patties are made of despair and lentils.” Bill’s eyes lit up. “The piñata.” He pointed a meaty finger at a section of the napkin where Molly had drawn a sad-looking donkey. “Operation: Donkey Punch.” Molly stared at him, her expression flat. “We are not calling it that. And how, precisely, does the piñata help?” “It’s the perfect chaos vector,” Bill explained, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll be the piñata handler. I’ll get over-enthusiastic. A few wild swings. Maybe take out a potted plant. A garden gnome. Dave will have to intervene. He’ll leave his post. That’s your window. You, in your catering disguise, use the commotion to sweep the Gift Nook clean.” A slow smile spread across Molly’s face. It was reckless, stupid, and relied entirely on Bill’s ability to cause controlled chaos—a terrifying prospect. It was, therefore, perfect. “Fine. But no actual donkeys are to be punched,” she stipulated. “And the tranquilizer baguette is our Plan B. For the dog. Or for Dave if he gets too handsy with the grill tongs.” Bill nodded solemnly, hefting the bread-weapon. “The code phrase is ‘I need more napkins.’” He paused. “What’s the code phrase for if I accidentally get candy stuck in the piñata?” “The code phrase for that is ‘we run,’ Bill,” Molly said, grabbing a tray of gluten-free cupcakes. “We run very, very fast.”