Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY96DNFCGQCVS7JC3PYJNR6

The aroma of stale coffee and desperation hung heavy in Molly's cramped apartment. Balloons, remnants from a previous, less lucrative venture, still clung stubbornly to a corner. Bill, a man whose physique suggested a fondness for donuts and a deep distrust of exercise, was sprawled across a lumpy armchair, meticulously studying a flyer. “Right, so," Molly began, pacing like a caged ferret, "Operation Sugar Rush is a go. Little Timmy Thompson’s fifth birthday. Five-year-olds. Presents. Mountains of them.” Bill grunted, not looking up. "Mountains of what, exactly? Mostly plastic junk, I'm guessing. Limited resale value.” “Bill, have you *seen* what parents buy for five-year-olds these days? Robotic dinosaurs! Talking unicorns! Personalized slime kits! It’s a goldmine!” Molly gestured wildly, nearly knocking over a precarious stack of stolen garden gnomes. “Slime kits. Wonderful. Think anyone’s going to be clamoring for personalized lime-green slime shaped like a pug?” “Don’t be a pessimist! People buy ridiculous things. My point is, we’re aiming for volume, not quality. We overload the van, unload the van at a discount warehouse, and boom! Profit!” Bill finally looked up, fixing her with a skeptical stare. "And how, precisely, do we intend to insert ourselves into a children’s party without raising… alarm?” “Charm, Bill! Sheer, unadulterated charm. We pose as entertainers. I'll be ‘Madame Mystique the Magnificent,’ purveyor of wonder and… minor illusions.” Molly struck a dramatic pose, nearly tripping over a loose rug. Bill winced. “Madame Mystique? Seriously? You look like you just rolled out of bed. And 'minor illusions’ involves what, exactly? Making a rabbit disappear that you borrowed from the pet store two blocks over?” “Details, details! You’ll be ‘Barnaby the Clown,’ purveyor of balloons and… general merriment.” Bill groaned. “I am not wearing a clown suit, Molly. Absolutely not. I’ll attract more attention than a flock of pigeons at a picnic table.” “Oh, stop being dramatic. It’s a rented clown suit. Extra-large, to accommodate your… generous physique.” Molly smirked. “Besides, you’re good at the goofy voice.” “I only did the goofy voice once, Molly! At Uncle Harold’s funeral! It was immensely inappropriate!” “It was hilarious! And it’ll work wonders with a bunch of five-year-olds. Think about it: balloon animals, silly faces, and strategically placed distraction while I… subtly liberate the presents.” Molly’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Subtly? You have the subtlety of a rhinoceros in a tutu.” “Hey! That’s a bit harsh. Just focus on the balloon animals, Bill. And try not to sat on the clown shoes. Last time, we had to return them with… significant damage.” Bill sighed, rubbing his temples. “So, let me get this straight. I’m going to be a clown, surrounded by screaming children, while you’re pulling off elaborate present-snatching maneuvers disguised as a magician. And the loot will likely be radioactive slime and plastic dinosaurs.” Molly grinned, grabbing a handful of glitter and tossing it into the air. "Exactly! Operation Sugar Rush. It’s going to be legendary!”