Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQDADEQV77MD3MG3GS8JWY

The clown car sputtered to a stop half a block from the birthday bash, its rainbow-striped bumper sagging like a deflated whoopee cushion. Molly adjusted her polka-dot bowtie in the rearview mirror, the elastic digging into her neck like a guilty conscience. "You ever notice how clown makeup smells like regret and expired cotton candy?" she muttered, peeling a sequin from her sleeve. Bill, already halfway out the door, paused with one oversized shoe planted on the curb. "Focus, Molly. We're not here to critique the olfactory arts. We're here to liberate a mountain of Lego sets and at least one pony." He hefted the duffel bag—stenciled with the words "Happy Birthday, Timmy!" in cheerful Comic Sans—and gave it a shake. The bag clinked ominously, as if it already contained the shattered dreams of a dozen six-year-olds. Molly sighed, tucking a lock of neon-green hair behind her ear. "I still think we should've gone with the piñata distraction. Less chance of getting glitter-bombed by a vengeful toddler." "Too late for second thoughts," Bill said, adjusting his red nose. "Operation Sugar Rush is a go. Remember—smile big, laugh loud, and if anyone asks, we're the entertainment." He tossed her a kazoo. "Now play something jaunty."