Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9VHH741B5ZA52NNRCFHX8

The aroma of sugar and desperation hung thick in Molly’s cluttered apartment. It smelled like a slightly pathetic birthday party gone wrong, which, in a way, it was. Scattered across her vintage floral armchair were blueprints – hand-drawn, naturally – of “Sparkle’s Spectacular Sixth Birthday Bash,” complete with crayon-like annotations highlighting security flaws and the likely location of the prize pile. Bill chewed on the end of a pencil, a consistent habit that chipped away at his lower lip. He squinted at the blueprints with the intensity of a brain surgeon, despite being about as qualified for that job as a goldfish. “So, little Sparkle. Six years old. Rainbow theme. Glitter. Judging by the balloon count, at least thirty kids. And Aunt Mildred’s prize-winning carrot cake.” Molly, perched on a stack of old phone books, corrected him. “Bill, focus! Carrot cake is not the objective. We’re after the loot. Mountains of plastic toys, battery-operated robots shaped like dogs, those tragically bright princess tiaras—it's a goldmine.” She gestured dramatically with a half-eaten jelly donut. “Think of it! An honest day’s work, and we could finally afford decent coffee. No more instant granules, Bill. *Decent* coffee.” “Right, right," Bill mumbled, his gaze still glued to the blueprints. “But the security. It’s a bouncy castle, Molly. A bouncy castle filled with sugar-fueled children. How do we get past that?” “Simple,” Molly said with a mischievous grin, popping the remaining jelly into her mouth. “Distraction. I've been working on something. Watch this.” She pulled a small, battered remote control from her pocket and pressed a button. From a nearby speaker, a recording of a truly terrible children’s song began to play – a relentlessly upbeat tune about a dancing pineapple. Bill recoiled. “Molly, that's… aggressively cheerful. Are you sure that’s the best we can do?” “Trust me,” she insisted. “Kids stop functioning at a certain decibel level of pure, unadulterated joy. It’ll clear the bouncy castle faster than you can say ‘existential dread’.” "And what about the parents? Thirty parents glued to folding chairs, judging each other's children's party hats." Bill scratched his chin. “They won't tolerate disturbing the peace.” "That's where you come in, my friend," Molly said, her eyes twinkling. “You're the designated ‘stressed-out uncle’. You’ll ‘accidentally’ knock over the punch bowl during the pineapple song. The ensuing chaos will give us ample opportunity to, shall we say, redistribute the wealth." “Redistribute the wealth? You mean steal all the presents?” Bill asked, looking faintly horrified. “Precisely!” Molly replied. “It’s technically a philanthropic endeavor, Bill! Think of all the children who *don't* have princess tiaras. We’re leveling the playing field.” Bill sighed, resigned to his fate. "Alright, alright. Stressed-out uncle it is. But if I get tackled by a miniature superhero, I’m blaming you.” Molly laughed, a sound like tinkling bells and impending doom. "Just try not to spill too much punch on Aunt Mildred's carrot cake. That would be a tragedy."