Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQFC0MAGS26XNVWEVWGE9V

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 fake freckle off her cheek. Bill, already halfway into his oversized diaper costume, paused mid-squat. "Only when you buy the discount brand from the back of *Circus Monthly*." He waddled toward the window, the plastic safety pins on his onesie clinking like wind chimes in a hurricane. Outside, a line of minivans idled, parents waving goodbye with the desperate enthusiasm of hostages signaling for help. Molly tossed him a sippy cup filled with lockpicks. "You take the back door. I’ll handle the piñata—it’s probably rigged with glitter bombs." Bill caught the cup, his chubby fingers struggling with the lid. "What if the kids cry?" She grinned, teeth too white against her greasepaint. "Then we tell ‘em Santa’s union went on strike. Now move—before the magician pulls a real rabbit out of his hat."