Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8MAR7MM9ZJBXM8GQPCR34

The linoleum of Mabel’s Diner stuck to Molly’s scuffed boots as she stirred burnt coffee, a crumpled first-birthday invite pinned under her elbow—its glittered unicorn border mocking their last botched warehouse job. Bill slouched opposite, picking at a grease stain on his jacket. “Quit moping—this party’s our ticket out of rent hell,” Molly said. “A kids’ party? You’re joking. Last time I was near a tot, they bit my wrist,” Bill replied. “This isn’t a playground tot. It’s the Hartwells’ kid—their guests drop Rolexes in gift bags like candy,” Molly said. “Hartwells? They’ve got a bouncer at the driveway,” Bill said. “Which is why you’re gonna be the clown,” Molly said. “The what? I can’t do face paint—my skin breaks out,” Bill said. “Tough. The party’s got a clown booked; you’ll take his spot ten minutes before the cake cutting,” Molly said. “What about the cake cutting? That’s chaos,” Bill said. “Exactly—chaos is our cover. I’ll slip through the side gate while you’re doing balloon animals that pop on purpose,” Molly said. “Pop on purpose? What if a kid cries?” Bill said. “Then you blame the defective balloons—parents’ll be too busy comforting them to notice me raiding the gift table,” Molly said. “And the bouncer?” Bill said. “I slipped a laxative in his lunch yesterday—he’ll be glued to the port-a-potty by 3 PM,” Molly said. “You did what? That’s low even for us,” Bill said. “Low pays the electric bill. Now, the gift table’s by the sunroom—locked cabinet? No, the Hartwells are too vain to lock presents they want to show off,” Molly said. “What if a parent does notice the gift table emptying?” Bill said. “I’ll stuff the bags in a giant teddy bear I’m bringing—say it’s a last-minute gift from a distant cousin,” Molly said. “A giant teddy bear? How you gonna carry that?” Bill said. “It’s got wheels sewn into the feet—duh. You just need to keep the clowns’ schedule: balloon animals at 2:45, cake cutting at 3:15, exit at 3:20,” Molly said. “What if the real clown shows up?” Bill said. “I tied his bike to a fire hydrant with a zip tie—he’ll be late enough for you to bail before he’s there,” Molly said. “This is insane. What if a kid figures me out?” Bill said. “Then you give ’em a lollipop and tell ’em you’re the ‘super secret clown spy’—kids eat that garbage up,” Molly said. “I still don’t like the face paint,” Bill said. Molly slid a hypoallergenic paint tube across the table, its neon red cap glowing. “I brought this. Stop complaining—we’re stealing enough presents to skip heists for six months,” she said. “Six months? You sure the gift bags are that good?” Bill said. “I saw Mrs. Hartwell’s sister wrap a diamond necklace for the kid—they’re that ridiculous,” Molly said. “Fine. But if I get bit again, I’m taking the diamond necklace for myself,” Bill said. “Deal. Now pass the ketchup—I need to practice making clown blood for the balloon pop distraction,” Molly said. He sighed, grabbing the ketchup bottle and squeezing a thick blob onto a napkin. She tapped the invite’s cake-cutting time, circling it with a dry pen, while he twisted the paint tube until a dollop oozed out, staining his thumb neon red. The diner’s jukebox blared a lullaby, a absurd counterpoint to their petty, high-stakes plan, as they mapped their exit route on a crumpled napkin, ignoring the waitress’s side-eye.