Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ1EKYPE4B64MSGKZM4N28

The neon glow of the *Happy Clown Pizza & Playland* sign flickered like a dying firefly, casting long, wobbly shadows across the alley where Molly and Bill crouched behind a suspiciously sticky dumpster. Molly adjusted her oversized rainbow wig—stolen from a Halloween clearance bin—and wiped a smear of face paint from Bill’s cheek. He’d gone full mime for the occasion, which, in Molly’s opinion, was both overkill and deeply unsettling. “You look like a sad ghost who just found out he’s lactose intolerant,” she whispered, poking at the white greasepaint caked around his mouth. Bill scowled, which only made him resemble a melancholic pierrot. “This is *method*, Moll. I’m *becoming* the party. Kids love mimes. We’re mysterious. Enigmatic.” “Kids *hate* mimes. They’re terrified of ‘em. You’re gonna send some poor five-year-old into therapy before we even get to the piñata.” A high-pitched giggle echoed from inside the building, followed by the unmistakable *thwack* of a balloon animal meeting its doom. Bill peeked over the dumpster’s rim, then ducked back down. “Coast is clear. Parents are all distracted by the magician. Guy’s pulling a rabbit out of his hat like it’s 1952.” Molly cracked her knuckles. “Alright, here’s the play: I go in as *Sparkle Molly*, the world’s most enthusiastic party helper. You lurk in the corners, doing your creepy silent routine. I’ll ‘accidentally’ knock over the gift table, you ‘help’ me pick everything up—” “—by shoving it all into this.” Bill patted the oversized diaper bag slung over his shoulder, labeled *PROPERTY OF MR. WIGGLES* in glitter glue. “Exactly. Then we bail before the cake’s even cut. Easy.” Bill frowned. “What if a kid asks for a balloon animal?” “Tell ‘em you’re fresh out of balloons. Or better yet, *be* a balloon animal. Just inflate your ego a little—shouldn’t be hard.” He flipped her off, which lost some of its impact with his white-gloved hand. Inside, the magician’s voice boomed: *“And for my next trick, I’ll need a volunteer from the audience!”* A chorus of tiny screams followed. Molly adjusted her wig. “Showtime, Casper. Remember—if anyone asks, we’re with the *‘Imagination Foundation.’*” “What’s that?” “No idea. But it sounds noble.” They slipped in through the side door, blending into the chaos of sugar-high children and harried parents. Molly immediately grabbed a tray of juice boxes and started handing them out with manic cheer. “Who’s ready for *more* sugar?!” she trilled, earning a round of sticky-high-fives. Meanwhile, Bill lurked near the gift table, pretending to struggle with an invisible box. A toddler stared at him, wide-eyed, before bursting into tears. “Told you,” Molly muttered under her breath, sidestepping a rogue Nerf dart. Bill ignored her, miming the opening of a present with exaggerated slowness. The diaper bag yawned open at his feet. One by one, gifts disappeared into its depths—a Lego set here, a doll there, a suspiciously heavy box labeled *FOR DAD (DO NOT SHAKE)*. Molly ‘tripped,’ sending a pile of wrapping paper flying, and in the confusion, Bill ‘helped’ by scooping up an armful of loot. Then the magician’s voice cut through the noise: *“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the grand finale—making this entire table of presents* ***vanish!***”* Molly froze. Bill’s gloved hand hovered over a remote-control car. The magician flourished his cape. The lights dimmed. Bill mouthed: *“We’re screwed.”* Molly grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the exit just as the magician yelled, *“Ta-da!”*—and the gift table collapsed, revealing nothing but a single, sad deflated balloon. Behind them, a child gasped. *“Mommy, the bad mime stole Christmas!”* They didn’t stick around to hear the rest.