Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ4VWDWN7BE957XVAF89RK

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 unwrapping a stolen lollipop with the focus of a bomb technician. “You realize we’re about to rob a bunch of six-year-olds, right?” Bill said, popping the candy into his mouth. “This is a new low. Even for us.” Molly shot him a look. “First of all, we’re not robbing *them*. We’re robbing *from* them. Big difference. Second, have you *seen* the price of Legos lately? That’s basically liquid gold in plastic form. And third—” she held up a glittery invitation swiped from a minivan earlier that afternoon “—this place is *loaded*. Piñatas, goodie bags, a *bounce house*. We’re talking a five-figure haul, easy.” Bill squinted at the invitation. “*Little Timmy’s Magical Unicorn Extravaganza*? That’s our target? A *unicorn* party?” “Don’t be a species-ist. Unicorns are just horses with better PR.” Molly tossed him a pair of rainbow suspenders. “Put these on. You’re going in as *Bubbles the Balloon Artist*.” Bill held up the suspenders like they’d just bitten him. “I am *not* wearing these.” “You *are* if you don’t want to get tackled by a mom who’s had three mimosas and thinks you’re a registered sex offender.” Molly yanked a name tag out of her pocket and slapped it onto his chest. “Also, you now answer to *Sparkle Bill*.” “Sparkle—” Bill’s voice cracked. “I’d rather take the mimosa mom.” Molly ignored him, stuffing a handful of whoopee cushions into her fanny pack. “Alright, here’s the play. I go in as *Giggle Molly*, the face-painting extraordinaire. You work the crowd, distract the parents with your *award-winning* balloon animals—” “I can’t make balloon animals.” “—while I *liberate* the presents from under the *‘Do Not Open Until 3:45 PM’* sign.” She checked her watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the cake’s cut, the kids riot, and we make our exit with enough Fire Tablets to fence for a month.” Bill sighed, staring at the suspenders. “What if someone asks for a balloon giraffe?” “Tell ‘em giraffes are *problematic*.” Molly adjusted her wig. “Now let’s go. And for God’s sake, *sparkle*.” They stepped out of the car, the saccharine scent of cotton candy and impending regret thick in the air. The party was in full swing—children shrieking, parents pretending to enjoy themselves, and a man in a unicorn onesie sweating through his glitter beard. Bill sidled up to a cluster of moms. “Uh. Hey. You ladies look like you could use… a *balloon*.” One mom eyed him. “Are you supposed to be here?” Molly, already elbow-deep in a tub of glitter, chimed in, “Oh, *Sparkle Bill* is our *special* entertainment! He does… *interpretive* balloon art.” Bill forced a grin. “Yeah. Interpretive. Very… *abstract*.” A kid tugged his sleeve. “Mister, can you make me a dinosaur?” Bill’s smile froze. Molly, now pocketing a Nintendo Switch, stage-whispered, “*Abstract*, Bill. *Abstract*.” He took a deep breath, grabbed a balloon, and began twisting it with the confidence of a man who had long since given up. “Kid… have you ever heard of a *postmodern* dinosaur?”