Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5VW1WB37M6C1NY1SVBAN6

The rusted lawn chair groaned under Bill’s considerable weight as he squinted at the invitation. “It says ‘No gifts, please.’ Right there. In italics.” Molly, perched on the edge of a plastic patio table, didn’t look up from polishing a grappling hook with a silk handkerchief. “Of course it says that, Bill. It’s a lie parents tell each other to feel better. It’s a social nicety, like saying ‘How are you?’ when you don’t actually want to hear about my deviated septum.” “Seems risky,” Bill grumbled, folding the colorful card. “What if they listened? We go through all the trouble of neutralizing the bouncy castle attendant, and all we get is a handful of gluten-free cupcakes and a disappointed six-year-old.” “Bill, look at the address. This is the Pemberton-Smythe estate. Their little ‘Baxter’ or ‘Bentley’ or whatever horrid name they’ve chosen is not having a gift-less party. The other parents will ignore the request out of pure, unadulterated social panic. It’ll be a smorgasbord of overpriced plastic and educational toys that will teach the child nothing except resentment.” Bill considered this. “So… it’s a target-rich environment?” “It’s the Fort Knox of fifth birthdays,” Molly said, her eyes gleaming. “Now, the real security issue isn’t the parents. They’ll be distracted by sangria and comparing private preschools. It’s the entertainer.” “The clown?” “Worse. A licensed, certified, and fully-credentialed ‘Childhood Enrichment Coordinator’ named Professor Pumpernickel. His focus is rhythmic cognitive engagement. He’s a one-man distraction machine.” Bill snorted. “A guy in a bad hat with a bunch of scarves. What’s he gonna do, harmonize at us?” “He’s the key. He’s our unknowing accomplice.” Molly leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “His entire act is built around a ‘Magical Treasure Chest’ he uses for his finale. The kids all put their ‘happy thoughts’ inside, and he A slow, ugly grin spread across Bill’s face. “He uses a lock?” “A flimsy theatrical padlock. You could beat it with a stern look. Our play is simple. You create a diversion during the ‘Hokey Pokey’ remix—I suggest a catastrophic ice cream meltdown near the main patio. While all eyes are on the sticky tragedy, I switch his treasure chest with our identical, empty one. He performs his finale, locks it up, and wheels it right to his van, which we will have conveniently parked in the shade for him.” “We steal his van? Molly, that’s grand theft auto!” “No, you oaf. We *offer* to park his van. We are considerate party guests. He’ll be grateful. He’ll load the chest himself. We drive away with the entire haul in one neat, professionally handled package. It’s not a heist, Bill. It’s a logistical reassignment.” Bill stared into the middle distance, imagining it. The chaos, the switch, the clean getaway. “It’s… beautiful. But what about the happy thoughts? What happens to them?” Molly sighed, slipping the grappling hook into her duffel bag. “Bill, in our line of work, you can’t afford to get sentimental about the happy thoughts of strangers. Besides,” she said, standing up and brushing off her trousers, “we’re giving those parents a far more valuable gift.” “What’s that?” “A wonderful reason to never speak to each other again. Now, go get your party hat. We’ve got a birthday to crash.”