Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPJMPFQGB5PVE289W3QY9Y

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, picking at the frayed edges of his fake mustache with the enthusiasm of a man who’d just realized his life choices had led him to this exact, humiliating moment. “You sure this is the right move?” Bill muttered, squinting at the building. “Stealing from kids? That’s like, negative karma points. We’re gonna wake up tomorrow with toe fungus or something.” Molly rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t detach. “First of all, toe fungus is a small price to pay for a clean five-figure score. Second, we’re not stealing *from* the kids. We’re *redistributing* from their spoiled little bratty hands to our *much more deserving* ones.” “Redistributing?” Bill scoffed. “Since when are we Robin Hood? Last I checked, we once stole a guy’s prosthetic leg because you thought it was a ‘fancy cane.’” “That was one time! And in my defense, it *was* a fancy cane. Besides,” Molly said, slamming the car door, “these kids don’t *need* thirty-seven iPads. They’ve got *parents*. Let’s be real—those presents are just gonna get thrown in a closet next to last year’s fidget spinners.” Bill adjusted his oversized bowtie, which was currently choking him like a noose made of regret. “Okay, but what’s the play here? We just waltz in, grab the loot, and bolt? Because I don’t love the idea of getting tackled by a dad who bench-presses minivans for fun.” Molly grinned, pulling a clipboard from her back pocket. “Relax. We’re the *entertainment*. According to the flyer, the ‘Magical Mr. Wiggles’ was supposed to show up at 3 PM. Guess who’s *not* showing up?” Bill groaned. “We’re impersonating a children’s entertainer?” “Bingo. And not just any entertainer—*the* Magical Mr. Wiggles. Master of balloons, sultan of silly string, *purveyor of mild disappointment*.” She tossed him a bedazzled top hat. “You’re the magician. I’m your ‘assistant.’” Bill stared at the hat like it had just insulted his mother. “I don’t *do* magic.” “You don’t have to *do* magic. You just have to *pretend* to do magic while I load up the presents. Distract the kids with some half-hearted card tricks, maybe set something on fire—” “*Set something on fire?*” “Kids love fire. Just don’t burn the place down. Or do. I don’t care. Insurance fraud is a whole other revenue stream.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize we’re about to traumatize an entire generation, right? These kids are gonna need *therapy*.” Molly slapped him on the back hard enough to dislodge a lung. “Buck up, buttercup. We’re giving them a *story*. Thirty years from now, they’ll be at a bar like, *‘Remember that time a clown and a guy who looked like a depressed pirate stole all our presents?’* Instant bonding experience.” Bill sighed, adjusting his fake mustache for the tenth time. “I hate my life.” Molly grinned, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “No, you don’t. You love it. Admit it—this is the most fun you’ve had since we stole that priest’s bike.” Bill opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. “Okay, yeah. That *was* a good day.” Molly clapped her hands. “Atta boy. Now let’s go ruin some childhoods.”