Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPBCF5STPBTM3PYEDXFQV1

The neon glow of the *Dazzle & Delight Party Emporium* sign flickered like a dying firefly as Molly adjusted her oversized clown nose in the rearview mirror. Bill, slumped in the passenger seat, was attempting to cram a curly rainbow wig over his bald spot. It kept slipping, revealing a patch of shiny scalp that reflected the streetlamp like a distress beacon. “You look like a molting parrot,” Molly said, not looking up from her clipboard. Bill scowled and yanked the wig lower. “And you look like a serial killer who got lost on the way to a birthday party. That nose is *haunting*.” “It’s *authentic*,” Molly sniffed. “I stole it from an actual clown. Well, an *aspiring* clown. He was crying in a Denny’s at 3 AM. Easy mark.” Bill exhaled through his nose, fogging up the windshield. “Remind me again why we’re hitting a six-year-old’s princess-themed extravaganza instead of, say, a bank?” Molly tapped her pen against the party schedule she’d “borrowed” from the Emporium’s break room. “Banks have vaults. Vaults have alarms. Alarms have *cops*. Kids? They’ve got *piñatas*. Piñatas have *candy*. Candy has—” “A sugar crash that’ll turn those little monsters into a swarm of hyperactive gremlins in twenty minutes,” Bill finished, grinning. “Genius. We wait for the meltdown, grab the loot, and slip out in the chaos.” “Exactly.” Molly flipped the clipboard shut. “Plus, the presents are all in one place. No safecracking. No laser grids. Just a mountain of poorly wrapped Barbie Dreamhouses and iPads some rich parent bought to compensate for their emotional absence.” Bill rubbed his hands together. “I do love a low-stakes heist. What’s our play?” Molly reached into the backseat and tossed him a name tag that read *MR. WIGGLES*. “You’re the ‘professional balloon artist.’ I’m *Sparkle the Magician*—” “You’re not a magician.” “I am *today*. I’ve got a wand, a top hat, and zero moral compass. That’s basically a PhD in prestidigitation.” Bill squinted at the name tag. “Why ‘Mr. Wiggles’?” “Because you *wiggle* when you lie. It’s your tell.” “I do *not*—” “You’re wiggling *right now*.” Bill froze mid-squirm. “That’s just my chair. It’s lumpy.” Molly ignored him, pulling a glitter-covered sack from the glove compartment. “We go in, mingle, and when the cake’s being cut—*chaos*. You ‘accidentally’ pop all the balloons. I ‘misfire’ a magic trick that sets off the sprinklers. Parents panic, kids scream, we grab the presents and bolt out the emergency exit.” Bill nodded, then paused. “Wait. *Sprinklers*?” “Relax, it’s just a smoke bomb in a seltzer bottle. Harmless. Mostly.” Molly checked her watch. “We’ve got ten minutes till showtime. You ready to ruin some childhoods?” Bill adjusted his wig one last time. “Born ready. But if I have to make one single balloon poodle, I’m taking a hostage.” Molly grinned. “Deal. But if you *do* take a hostage, make it the dad in the Rolex. He’s got *terrible* taste in gifts.” She opened the car door, the jingle of her clown bells cutting through the night air like a knife through a piñata. “Let’s go make some memories.”