Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPND9FESTA7AH417HV3SVF

The back alley behind *Party Palace* smelled like balloon helium and stale cake frosting. Molly adjusted her oversized clown wig, the red yarn hair scratching her neck. "You realize this is the lowest we’ve ever sunk, right? Stealing from *babies*." Bill wiped a smear of face paint off his cheek, leaving a streaky white ghost patch. "First of all, they’re not babies. They’re *six-year-olds*. Second, have you *seen* the price of Legos lately? That’s liquid gold in there. Third—" He held up a glitter-covered invitation. "—this place is *loaded*. The birthday kid’s dad owns a chain of car washes. Cash only, no receipts. Classic money-laundering front." Molly squinted at the invitation. "*‘Bring gifts, not knives’?* What kind of psychopath puts that on a party invite?" "Rich people," Bill said, like it explained everything. "They’re paranoid. Probably got a safe full of Beanie Babies in there." Molly sighed, adjusting the squeaky nose on her clown mask. "Fine. But if we traumatize a single kid, I’m blaming you. And I *will* rat you out to your parole officer." Bill gasped, clutching his chest. "Molly! After all we’ve been through? The *bank job*? The *pet store fiasco*?" "*The pet store was your idea!* You said ‘how hard could it be?’ and then a parrot screamed ‘THIEF!’ at the top of its lungs for *twenty minutes*." Bill waved a hand. "Details. Look, this is foolproof. We go in as entertainers—" "—because *nothing* says ‘trustworthy’ like two adults in clown suits—" "—we ‘accidentally’ knock over the gift table, grab the loot, and bail before the cake’s even cut. Easy." Molly crossed her arms. "What’s the exit strategy?" Bill grinned. "We hide in the ball pit." "*The—*" "*Genius*, right? No one suspects the ball pit. It’s like the witness protection program for criminals with low standards." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "You realize we’re going to be *covered* in child germs." "Small price to pay for a haul of untraceable toys we can fence at *three times* the retail value. Parents’ll pay anything for a ‘vintage’ Furby on Christmas Eve." Molly groaned. "I hate everything about this. But fine. What’s the signal if things go south?" Bill pulled a kazoo from his pocket and gave it an experimental toot. "*This*." Molly stared. "*A kazoo.*" "*Loud* kazoo. You’ll hear it over the screaming." She took a deep breath. "I need a drink." Bill patted her shoulder. "After the job. We’ll celebrate with whatever’s in the piñata." Molly’s eye twitched. "*You don’t know what’s in the piñata.*" Bill shrugged. "Hopefully cash. Or candy. Or, like, a gift card. Point is, we’re walking out of there with *something*." Molly adjusted her wig one last time. "If we get caught, I’m telling the cops you forced me into this at gunpoint." Bill nodded. "Fair. I’ll say you masterminded the whole thing and I was just the muscle." Molly glared. "I *am* the muscle." Bill opened the back door, setting off a chorus of giggles from inside. "Then let’s go earn our title as the world’s most terrifying clowns."