Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5TJAD0Y8YG8CW1N431R7G

The air in the cramped van was thick with the smell of old coffee and desperation. Molly tapped a glittery pink crayon against a well-chewed notepad, her brow furrowed in concentration. Bill, a man built like a disappointed refrigerator, was attempting to stretch a pair of tights over his prodigious head. “The problem,” Molly said, not looking up from her schematics, “is the dragon.” Bill’s muffled voice emerged from the stretched nylon. “I thought the problem was the laser security system. Or the motion-activated sprinklers. Or the fact that we’re two grown adults planning a felony at a six-year-old’s birthday party.” “The dragon is the perimeter guard,” Molly clarified, drawing a shaky circle around a stick-figure dragon breathing what appeared to be glitter. “His name is Sir Reginald. He’s a retired show dog with a nervous bladder and a deep-seated mistrust of clowns. Which is what you’ll be.” Bill finally won the battle with the tights, his face emerging, red and squashed. “I look like a burst sausage. Why do I have to be the clown?” “Because,” Molly said with the patience of a bomb disposal expert, “you’re the ‘in’. You create the distraction. The parents will be hypnotized by your tragic balloon animals, the children will be terrified, and I, disguised as the overly-enthusiastic magician’s assistant, will liberate the gifts from the secure holding area—aka, the garden shed.” “What’s my clown name?” “Weeping William. It’s thematically appropriate. Now, focus. The cake is a seven-tier chocolate fortress arriving at 1400 hours. That’s our signal. Once the sugar high kicks in and the first child has a meltdown over a broken piñata sword, we move.” Bill picked up a tiny, rainbow-colored bicycle horn and gave it a despondent squeak. “I just feel like our skills are being wasted. We lifted the Crown Jewels of Svenborgia.” “And we’d have gotten away with it if you hadn’t tried to pay for a hot dog with a diamond the size of a quail’s egg,” Molly snapped. “This is a simple in-and-out. Low security, high reward. The guest of honor is a child named ‘Braxxlynn’. Her father is a tech billionaire. That pile of presents is a goldmine of unregistered gift cards and ethically-sourced wooden toys we can fence for a fortune.” “What’s the exit strategy?” “The bouncy castle. We create a panic, you ‘accidentally’ release the anchoring straps. While it’s careening across the lawn with nineteen screaming children aboard, we slip out the side gate with the loot stuffed into a giant, novelty goody bag.” Bill was silent for a long moment, staring at his oversized, floppy shoes. “I have a question.” “What?” “Do I get a piece of the cake? I heard it’s gluten-free vanilla bean with a passionfruit ganache.” Molly slammed her notepad shut. “Fine. You can have the top tier with the edible picture of Braxxlynn’s face on it. Now, are you committed, or am I going to have to find a new clown?” Bill sighed, the sound deflating his polka-dot ruff. He picked up a red foam nose and put it on. “Alright. For the cake.” He gave the bicycle horn another sad squeak. “Honk honk.”