Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ5HE1RV9V5T8NR0F1KERP

The back alley behind *Party Palace* smelled like balloon rubber and stale cake frosting. Molly crouched behind a dumpster, adjusting the oversized clown nose she’d swiped from a costume shop. Bill leaned against the brick wall, flipping a whoopee cushion between his fingers like a stress ball. “You sure this is the right play?” Bill muttered. “Last time we hit a kids’ party, I got glitter in my lungs for a week.” Molly rolled her eyes. “That was a *toddler’s* birthday. These are *rich* kids. We’re talking iPads wrapped in ribbon, Bill. *Designer* LEGO sets. One of these brats probably got a pony in a box.” “A pony doesn’t fit in a box.” “It’s a *metaphor*, Bill.” “Metaphors don’t pay the rent.” He tossed the whoopee cushion into the air and caught it. “And what’s our exit? Last time, we had to jump out a window into a bouncy castle.” “Which was *hilarious* until you broke the castle.” “It was *already* deflating!” Molly shushed him as a cluster of moms in pastel sweaters herded past, clutching gift bags. “Look at ‘em. Those bags are *bulging*. There’s gotta be at least three grand in there.” Bill squinted. “Or it’s just a lot of those tiny Play-Doh cans. You ever step on one of those? It’s like stepping on a landmine made of regret.” “Focus. We go in as party staff—” “You look like a clown who lost a bet.” “—*disguised* as party staff. I’m the face painter, you’re the balloon animal guy.” Bill groaned. “I can’t make balloon animals.” “You don’t *have* to. Just blow ‘em up and twist ‘em into sad blobs. Kids don’t know the difference.” “Last time I tried that, a kid cried and called me ‘the worst man alive.’” “Then *lean into it*. Be the worst man alive. Own it.” Molly adjusted her wig—a neon-green afro that clashed spectacularly with the clown nose. “We hit the present table during the cake cut. You cause a distraction—” “How?” “Set off a confetti cannon. Trip over your own feet. Start a conga line. I don’t care. Just make sure every adult is looking at *you* while I swap the real presents for the fakes we packed.” Bill frowned. “The fakes are just bricks wrapped in newspaper.” “Exactly! No one’s gonna open ‘em until they get home. By then, we’re long gone, and some kid’s gonna be *real* confused why his new Xbox weighs thirty pounds.” Bill rubbed his temples. “What if someone *does* open one early?” Molly grinned. “Then we improvise. You ever seen a mom try to explain to a room full of six-year-olds why Santa’s workshop now sells *masonry supplies*?” Bill sighed. “This is why we can’t have nice things.” “No, Bill. This is why *we* can have nice things—*their* nice things.” Molly slapped him on the back. “Now let’s go ruin some childhoods.” She straightened her wig and marched toward the party entrance, hips swinging like she owned the place. Bill stared after her, then at the whoopee cushion in his hand. With a resigned sigh, he tucked it into his pocket. “Alright. But if I have to make a giraffe, it’s gonna look like a sad, deflated sock.” He jogged after her, already practicing his best “oops-I-dropped-all-the-balloon-animals” face.