Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94QT7WKC0EPSFW0CHB1THW

Bill adjusted his rubber nose in the rearview mirror. Outside, the target loomed—a ranch decorated with neon streamers. Molly checked her tactical stopwatch, her face a mask of joyless intensity. She adjusted her turtleneck, believing it added sophisticated larceny. "The bouncy castle is at sixty percent capacity, Bill. If we don’t move when the juice boxes are distributed, our window slams shut. Does the nose look too red? I feel like red says shifty, but polka-dots say untrustworthy. I need to know if I'm a convincing clown or just a man in a costume." Bill squeezed a rubber bulb in his pocket, producing a mournful honking sound. He looked like a laundry accident in a paint factory. Molly pulled up a digital blueprint that was actually a grease-stained napkin from a diner. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted a small child holding a juice pouch. "It’s a five-year-old’s birthday, not the Met Gala. Focus on the mission. You’re the distraction. You enter the patio, drop the balloon animals, and create a bottleneck at the donkey station. Just don't get pinned yourself." Bill peered through binoculars held together by duct tape. Toddlers scrambled across the lawn like sticky-handed locusts. He checked his pockets for gear, feeling the heavy weight of the plastic whistles and the secondary distraction units. He was sweating through his white makeup. "What about Aunt Susan? She’s a high-velocity hugger. If she latches on, the operation is compromised. Also, are we leaving the goody bags? I heard they have those whistles that sound like dying birds. I want one." Molly tapped the dashboard. She was already visualizing the Lego Millennium Falcon in the trunk. It was the crown jewel of the nursery collection, and she wasn't letting a sugar-crazed toddler stand in her way. She popped a piece of caffeine gum into her mouth. "Amateur hour is over. We take the big boxes, ghost the cake service, and disappear before the professional clown arrives. You’re an Entertainment Consultant. He’s Bozzo the Disappointing. There’s a hierarchy. Just use the glitter cannons." Bill took a deep breath and opened the car door. He stepped into the sunlight. His oversized shoes hit the pavement with a heavy thud. He looked back at Molly, his wig slightly crooked from the nerves. "I'm going in. If I don't make it back, tell my mother I died doing something more dignified than stealing blocks. And remember, the handkerchief trick isn't infinite. It’s four yards of polyester. It’s a finite trick." Molly didn't watch him go. She was timing the interval between the pizza delivery and the inevitable sugar crash. She hummed a tune, her fingers drumming as the first scream erupted from the backyard. She watched a neighbor's cat flee the scene in terror. "Good luck, you magnificent fool. Just keep them away from the Millennium Falcon until I give the signal. If anyone asks for a giraffe, tell them those are for winners only. This is serious, birthday-themed business. Now get out there and make those children wonder where their childhood went."