Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPN7T8DZ9A4XMSW4M03H9D

The back room of the Tipsy Turtle Pub smelled like stale beer and regret, which was fitting, since that’s exactly what Molly and Bill were serving up tonight. Molly leaned against the sticky table, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the chipped wood. Bill, meanwhile, was hunched over a crumpled napkin, scribbling what he insisted was a "foolproof plan" with a crayon he’d stolen from a kid’s birthday party earlier that week. "You’re telling me," Molly said, squinting at the napkin, "that our grand strategy involves dressing up as clowns?" Bill didn’t look up. "Not just clowns. *Beloved* clowns. The kind kids trust. The kind parents hire to make their little angels laugh while they guzzle wine in the kitchen." Molly groaned. "I hate clowns. They’re just adults in face paint who’ve given up on dignity." "Exactly!" Bill jabbed the crayon at her. "No one suspects a clown. We waltz in, we distract, we take the loot. Easy." Molly plucked the crayon from his hand and snapped it in half. "First of all, I am *not* wearing a red nose. Second, have you ever actually *been* to a children’s party? Those things are war zones. You’ve got sugar-fueled toddlers, over-caffeinated parents, and at least one kid who will *definitely* try to feed you a juice box like it’s a peace offering before stabbing you with a plastic fork." Bill waved a hand. "Minor details. We’ll be in and out before the piñata gets cracked." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "The piñata is the *main event*. That’s when every kid in a five-mile radius descends on the presents like a swarm of locusts. You think they’re just gonna let us waltz off with a pile of wrapped boxes?" Bill grinned. "That’s why we bring the *distraction*." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, suspiciously lumpy sack. Molly’s eyes narrowed. "What is that?" "Balloon animals." He dumped the contents onto the table—a tangle of deflated balloons and a half-empty bottle of helium. "We’ll make a giraffe. Kids love giraffes." Molly stared at him. "You can’t even make a *dog*." "I can make a *very* abstract dog." She sighed. "This is a disaster. We’re gonna get caught, Bill. And not even in a cool, ‘oh no, the cops are here’ way. We’re gonna get caught in a *humiliating*, ‘oh no, a five-year-old just called me a poopyhead’ way." Bill leaned back, crossing his arms. "You got a better idea?" Molly hesitated. "…We could just rob a bank like normal people." "Boring. And also, illegal." "Says the man who once tried to steal a vending machine with a butter knife." Bill pointed at her. "That vending machine was *asking* for it. It ate my dollar." Molly rubbed her temples. "Fine. We do the clown thing. But if I get glitter on me, I’m holding you personally responsible for my therapy bills." Bill clapped his hands. "Excellent! Now, first order of business—we need names. Something whimsical. Something *trustworthy*." Molly groaned. "I already regret this." "Mr. Snickerdoodle and…" Bill tapped his chin. "Madame Wobblebottom." Molly buried her face in her hands. "I’m gonna need a drink."