Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9HQ7VNSGT0FQX5J9VRGT0

The grease-stained vinyl booth of Mabel’s Diner stuck to Molly’s jeans as she stirred burnt coffee with a bent spoon, her eyes fixed on the crumpled children’s party invitation Bill had slapped down an hour prior. The neon “EATS” sign flickered above the counter, painting the chipped Formica table in strobing pink as a truck rumbled past the window, shaking the salt shaker until a grain trickled onto the invitation’s cartoon unicorn. Bill, slouched opposite with a half-eaten apple pie oozing onto his leather jacket, picked at a loose thread, brow furrowed like solving a six-year-old’s bash instead of a bank vault. A waitress glanced over once, then sighed and went back to wiping the counter, used to their quiet bickering. Molly’s boots tapped a rapid rhythm against the linoleum, matching the tick of the broken wall clock above the door. You’re overcomplicating this. It’s sugar-crazed kids and a harried mom—they won’t notice a thing. Harried mom? Last time you said that, we got chased by a PTA president with a baseball bat. That was a middle school bake sale. This is different—kids have short attention spans. We sneak in during piñata rush. Piñata rush? What if it’s a dragon? Pointy parts. I still have a scratch from last themed decor incident. Molly slammed her spoon down, making coffee slosh over the rim. She plucked the invitation, running a finger over the “No Adults Unaccompanied” note like it was a trivial lock pickable with a bobby pin. She’d spent three nights mapping the party’s timeline, noting the piñata at 3 p.m., cake at 3:15, and a balloon release that would distract everyone for ten full minutes. She also made a list of the mom’s known distractions: a fussy baby cousin, a broken blender, and a tendency to misplace her phone. We’ll pose as the clowns the mom forgot to book. I made a balloon kit—can’t mess up a dog balloon, right? I can mess up a dog balloon. Last week I made a lopsided octopus that made a kid cry. Then you’re the balloon disaster clown—kids love chaos. We grab presents while they scream at your octopus. What about the wrap? We can’t stuff sparkly boxes into duffels unnoticed. Bill sat up, brushing pie off his jacket, and squinted at the 123 Clover Lane address—pastel blue house with a treehouse. He pictured the present table piled with toy cars, dollhouses, and gift cards tradable for beer later. He hated small-target heists but owed Molly a favor after she bailed him out of the library book theft mess last month. We’ll bring an “Emergency Party Supplies” bag—dump presents in there, say we’re taking them to storage. What if the dad’s home? I don’t do dads—they hide in garages with power tools. The invitation says “Dad’s Out Fishing.” He won’t be back until sunset. We’ll be gone by then. Fishing? Competitive dads have sharp hooks. I don’t want a tackle box hook. Quit being a baby. We grab presents and go—no heroics, no PTA chases. And I made you a clown nose that doesn’t fall off—learned my lesson from the bake sale. It’s waterproof too. The neon sign flickered out for a second, then came back on, casting pink over Bill’s nervous face. Molly slid the balloon kit across the table, and he picked it up, twisting a balloon tentatively until it popped; the waitress groaned and dropped her rag. She checked her watch, noting they had 24 hours to perfect their clown act before the party’s start, and gestured for the waitress to bring another coffee.