Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPTGVTSN8Q58M061NTW7VF

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, spinning a butter knife between her fingers like it was a lockpick. Bill, meanwhile, was hunched over a crumpled napkin, scribbling what he swore was a "foolproof plan." "You’re telling me," Molly said, eyeing the napkin, "that our grand strategy involves a clown costume and a piñata?" Bill didn’t look up. "Not just *a* clown costume. *The* clown costume. The one with the giant shoes. We’re blending in." Molly snorted. "Oh, sure. Because nothing says ‘trustworthy party guest’ like a grown man in a rainbow wig and shoes the size of canoes." Bill finally met her gaze, dead serious. "Molly, think about it. Kids love clowns. Parents tolerate them. And by the time they realize the presents are gone, we’ll be halfway to the getaway car, which, by the way, is currently parked behind a dumpster because you refused to pay for a meter." Molly sighed. "I *told* you, parking meters are a scam. Also, how do you even know there’ll be presents worth stealing? Could be a bunch of cheap plastic junk from the dollar store." Bill held up a flyer he’d swiped from the community board. "‘Princess Sophia’s Magical Sixth Birthday Extravaganza,’" he read. "‘Gifts encouraged, but no cash, please.’" He grinned. "That’s code for ‘rich parents, expensive presents.’" Molly squinted at the flyer. "Or it’s code for ‘we’re broke and don’t want to deal with thank-you cards.’" Bill waved a hand. "Details. Look, the party’s at the rec center. Big windows, easy access. We go in as entertainers—" "Clowns." "—clowns, fine, we mingle, we case the joint, and when the kids are distracted by cake, we make our move. Simple." Molly tapped the butter knife against her teeth. "And what’s your exit strategy? Because last time, we had to jump out a second-story window, and I’m still finding glitter in places glitter should never be." Bill pulled a second napkin from his pocket. This one had a crude map. "Back door leads to the alley. We stash the loot in the dumpster—" "The *same* dumpster as the getaway car?" "—temporarily, yes. Then we swap the bags for something innocuous, like, I don’t know, a sack of flour or a very confused goat." Molly raised an eyebrow. "You want to steal presents and replace them with a *goat*?" Bill threw his hands up. "I’m improvising! The point is, we create a distraction, grab the goods, and vanish. Classic heist." Molly stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed, snatched the napkin, and drew a big X over his entire plan. "No clowns. No goats. We do this my way." Bill groaned. "Which is?" "We tell the kids we’re from the ‘Birthday Fairy Investigation Bureau’ and that all the presents have to be quarantined for ‘sparkle contamination.’ Then we walk out the front door like we own the place." Bill blinked. "That’s… actually not terrible." Molly smirked. "I know. Now buy me a drink. We’ve got a party to ruin."