Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5N95QVG6SW3CCSHZ99PFQ

The air in the dusty van was thick with the smell of stale coffee and poor life choices. Molly tapped a fingernail, chipped and painted a violent shade of purple, against a grainy photograph of a suburban McMansion. Bill, a man whose eyebrows seemed permanently locked in an expression of profound confusion, chewed on the end of a pen. “Alright,” Molly said, her voice a low, conspiratorial rasp. “The mark is a seven-year-old named Timmy. His parents, the Vanderbilts, are throwing him a ‘Super-Spy’ themed birthday party. Our in is the catering.” Bill stopped chewing. “We’re gonna be waiters?” “No, you magnificent idiot. We’re going to *be* the catering. Specifically, the two clowns from ‘Happy Honkers,’ who called this morning with a regrettable case of explosive food poisoning.” Bill’s eyebrows performed a complicated dance of skepticism. “Clowns. You want me to be a clown. Molly, I have a very specific skill set. It involves picking locks and looking shifty in a tasteful way. It does not involve balloon animals.” “It involves a big, floppy flower that squirts water and a van full of high-end plastic toys,” Molly countered. “The presents will be piled high in the living room, right next to the ‘Piñata of Doom.’ While I perform my critically acclaimed routine, ‘Clumsy Clarabelle Drops the Birthday Cake,’ creating a sugary diversion, you will be systematically relieving the gift table of its contents.” “And how do I get a van full of presents past a house full of parents hyped up on birthday cake and juvenile espionage?” Molly smiled, a predatory gleam in her eye. “The piñata. We’re replacing the candy inside with these.” She held up a small, metallic sphere. Bill squinted. “Is that a smoke bomb?” “It’s a *tear-gas-lite* bomb. The second little Timmy cracks that donkey open, the room will fill with a harmless but deeply irritating vapor. Everyone will be coughing, crying, and running for the doors. In the chaos, we load the loot into the giant, empty ‘prop cake’ on our trolley and wheel it right out the front door.” Bill was silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay,” he said slowly. “The clown thing is growing on me. But what’s my clown name? It’s gotta be tough. Menacing.” “Your clown name is ‘Toodles,’” Molly said, sliding a rainbow wig across the van’s floor. “Toodles?” Bill’s face fell. “I was thinking more ‘Brutus’ or ‘The Strangler.’” “You’re ‘Toodles.’ I’m ‘Binky the Birthday Buffoon.’ We’re a package deal. Now, the hardest part of the entire operation.” Molly leaned in, her expression dead serious. “The password to get past the kid they’ll have guarding the door.” Bill leaned forward, ready for a complex cipher. “Yeah?” “You have to say: ‘The platypus flies at midnight but the waffle is syrupy.’” Bill blinked. “You’re joking.” “The invitation says ‘Come dressed as a super-spy and know the secret passphrase.’ This is it. Timmy’s a weird kid.” Molly sighed. “Look, are you in or out? This is a high-risk, high-reward gig. We’re talking the latest consoles, probably a bike, those stupidly expensive building blocks…” Bill looked at the rainbow wig, then back at the photo of the house. He thought of all those unopened boxes. A slow, grim smile spread across his face. “Okay, Binky,” he said, pulling the wig onto his head with a resigned sigh. “Let’s go make some children cry.”