Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPPV5J2MCSS2VH2VAPZAZD

The neon glow of the *Dazzle & Delight Party Emporium* sign flickered like a dying firefly as Molly adjusted her oversized clown wig in the rearview mirror. Bill sat beside her, methodically peeling the label off a bottle of root beer he’d swiped from the gas station. “You sure this is the right move?” Bill squinted at the building. “Last time we hit a kids’ party, we ended up with a trunk full of glitter and a restraining order from a very aggressive mom named Karen.” Molly smacked his hand away from the wig. “First of all, that was a *birthday clown* gig, not a heist. Second, Karen had it coming. She underpaid us. And third—” she held up a crumpled flyer “—this isn’t just any party. It’s the *Annual Little Angels Charity Gala*. Rich parents, spoiled brats, and a *mountain* of unopened iPads, designer dolls, and whatever the hell a ‘Hatchimal’ is.” Bill groaned. “I still have nightmares about the Hatchimal incident.” “That was *one time*!” Molly hissed. “And in my defense, how was I supposed to know it would start screaming when I sat on it?” Bill rubbed his temples. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we? Sneaking into a room full of sugar-high five-year-olds to steal their loot like a couple of reverse Santas.” “Exactly!” Molly grinned. “But with less chimney and more…” She gestured vaguely at the party supply store’s back door. Bill sighed. “Fine. But we need rules. No eating the cake, no getting roped into playing ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey,’ and *absolutely* no interacting with the kids. Last time you tried to ‘blend in,’ you told a kid Santa wasn’t real, and we had to flee through a bounce house.” Molly waved him off. “Relax. We go in as caterers, grab the presents from the gift table, swap ‘em with the fakes we prepped, and slip out before the piñata gets busted open. Easy.” Bill held up a finger. “What if someone recognizes us?” “Please. We look *nothing* like ourselves.” Molly gestured to their outfits—Bill in a chef’s jacket two sizes too big, herself in a frilly apron with *Muffin the Baker* embroidered in cursive. “Besides, who’s gonna suspect the people refilling the juice boxes?” Bill adjusted his fake mustache. “Fair. But what’s our exit strategy if this goes south?” Molly patted the fire extinguisher on the seat between them. “Improvise. Distract. And if all else fails, we pull the alarm and vanish in the chaos.” Bill stared at her. “You want to set off a fire alarm at a kids’ party?” “Not *set it off*. Just… *suggest* there’s a fire. Kids love a good drill.” Molly checked her watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the magician shows up. You ready to be the worst caterers this side of the Mississippi?” Bill took a deep breath, then grabbed the tray of suspiciously lopsided cupcakes they’d “baked” as cover. “Let’s do this. But if I have to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ I’m taking the real presents and leaving you behind.” Molly grinned. “Deal. But if you *do* sing, make it jazz hands. Adds to the chaos.” She shoved open the car door. “Showtime, partner.”