Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPVSH25JTT09TW8BPHZVWV

The neon glow of the *Happy Clown Pizza & Playland* sign flickered like a dying firefly, casting a sickly pink hue over the dumpster where Molly and Bill crouched, huddled over a crumpled party invitation. The scent of stale cheese and balloon animals lingered in the air, a perfume only a child—or a desperate thief—could love. Molly adjusted her oversized sunglasses, though it was well past sunset. "Alright, let’s run this one more time. We’re not just walking into a kid’s birthday party. We’re *infiltrating* it." Bill scratched his chin, where a smudge of what might’ve been frosting—or possibly regret—lingered. "Infiltrating’s a strong word. We’re more… *blending in*." "Blending in?" Molly scoffed. "You stick out like a tax auditor at a magician’s convention. You’re six-foot-four and built like a fridge that’s seen better days. The only way you’re blending in is if we dress you as the piñata." Bill considered this. "I *do* have a strong jawline for smashing." Molly ignored him, tapping the invitation. "Twelve kids, all under eight. That’s twelve sets of parents too distracted by sugar crashes and face paint to notice us swapping out the good presents for the decoy ones we packed." Bill pulled a crumpled gift bag from his backpack. Inside, a single, sad-looking whoopee cushion glared up at them. "You really think a room full of kids is gonna notice we replaced their iPads with *these*?" "Kids don’t know what they’ve got until they open it," Molly said. "And by then, we’ll be long gone, sipping stolen juice boxes in the getaway car." Bill sighed. "You ever feel bad about this?" Molly paused. "Like, morally?" "Yeah." She shrugged. "Kid’s got a pony *and* a PlayStation. He’ll survive." Bill didn’t look convinced. "What if we get caught? You ever seen a prison yard? I don’t think ‘accidentally stole from a six-year-old’ plays well in the cafeteria." Molly grinned. "Then we’ll say we thought it was a bachelor party. Worked for me in Vegas." A sudden shriek erupted from inside the playland, followed by the unmistakable sound of a child wailing over a popped balloon. Molly checked her watch. "Showtime. Remember—you’re ‘Uncle Bill,’ the fun but slightly confusing relative no one asks about." Bill adjusted his fake mustache, which was already peeling at the edges. "And you?" Molly smoothed her hair into a severe bun and slapped on a name tag that read *Ms. Frizzle, Party Monitor*. "I’m the authority figure no one questions because they’re too busy Googling if ‘party monitors’ are a real thing." Bill nodded. "Genius. What’s our exit strategy?" Molly patted her fanny pack. "Same as always. Smoke bomb in the ball pit, blame the clown, and vanish in the chaos." Bill groaned. "You *hate* clowns." "I *hate* getting caught more." With that, they straightened their outfits—Bill in a Hawaiian shirt two sizes too small, Molly in a blazer that screamed *PTA meeting gone rogue*—and marched toward the automatic doors, where the shrieks of children and the scent of impending felony awaited.