Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TYQRJN7161BC560JEN851

The air in the van was thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation. Molly, peering through binoculars with the intensity of a hawk, didn’t blink. “Target is approaching the bounce house. Repeat, target is approaching the bounce house.” Bill, slumped in the passenger seat, nibbled on a carrot stick. “That’s Timmy. The birthday boy. You’re narrating a six-year-old’s walk to a bouncy castle.” “Operational awareness, Bill. It’s what separates the pros from the amateurs.” She lowered the binoculars and tapped a detailed schematic taped to the dashboard. It was a brightly colored map of ‘Sunny Meadows Park,’ with stick-figure children and arrows pointing to a picnic table labeled ‘PRESENT STASH.’ Bill sighed. “Right. The pros. So, walk me through it again. The ‘party foul’ protocol.” Molly’s eyes gleamed. “Phase one: Infiltration. We pose as disgruntled clowns from ‘Happy Sparkles Entertainment.’ The real clown is currently locked in a porta-potty two miles from here, thanks to a fake emergency call about a ‘rainbow malfunction.’” “You didn’t.” “I did. Phase two: Diversion. You will attempt to juggle. You will fail. The resulting spectacle of dropped bowling pins and mild child tears will draw all adult eyes. Meanwhile, I will engage the primary objective.” She pointed to the pile of gifts. “And phase three?” “Exfiltration via pedal-powered getaway vehicle.” She jerked a thumb towards the back of the van. Two brightly decorated tricycles, still with training wheels, lay tangled together. Bill put his head in his hands. “The trikes. Molly, we stole a diamond from the Getty in a garbage truck. We lifted the ‘Coughing Cat’ painting from the museum in a fake ambulance. Now we’re relying on *tricycles*?” “It’s a park, Bill! No motorized vehicles! It’s genius. They’ll never expect a pair of grown adults making a slow, wobbly escape on children’s toys.” “Because it’s insane.” “It’s avant-garde.” Molly checked her watch, a bulky tactical thing strapped over a fuzzy pink clown wristband. “Look, the payload is prime. Latest tablets, designer sneakers for toddlers, those obscenely expensive plastic ponies that look like they’ve seen things… It’s a goldmine. And the security is a dad who’s had three spiked lemonades and a mom who is solely focused on preventing a frosting-based incident.” Bill stared at the party. A small child was now crying because his balloon had escaped. “I feel a profound moral emptiness.” “That’s just the coffee. Now, get into your costume. And remember,” she said, handing him a giant red foam nose, “the silent scream is your friend. If anything goes wrong, you do the silent scream. It confuses everyone and buys us eighteen seconds.” Bill pulled on the polka-dotted overalls, his expression funereal. “Eighteen seconds. Then what?” Molly fastened a giant rainbow wig over her severe bun. “Then we pedal like the wind, Bill. We pedal like the shame-filled, present-laden wind.”