Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94VQBV8SGM634V22YXB94P

Molly adjusted her night-vision goggles, even though the midday sun blazed through the van’s windshield. Bill sat beside her, panting as he struggled to squeeze his burly frame into a neon-yellow clown suit. The interior of the stolen delivery truck smelled of stale popcorn and professional desperation. Molly checked the monitor displaying the backyard feed. The suburban street was quiet, save for the faint sound of a distant lawnmower and a barking neighborhood dog. "Remind me why I am the clown and you are the inspector?" Bill asked, struggling to snap an oversized red nose into place. He looked in the rearview mirror and grimaced at his own reflection. "Because I have the clipboard, Bill. A clipboard equals absolute authority. Nobody questions a woman in a high-visibility vest clutching a laminated safety checklist." Molly tapped her pen against the heavy aluminum board. She peeked through the tinted windows at the perfectly manicured lawn of the suburban house. "I feel like a neon target. These shoes are too small. My toes are currently performing a tragic play about claustrophobia." "Focus on the loot. The target is the mahogany gift table in the sunroom. Intelligence suggests premium LEGO sets and dozens of gift cards." Bill tugged at his spandex leggings, which were dangerously thin. He let out a long, theatrical sigh as he checked his equipment. "What about the small, sticky kids?" "The toddlers are neutralized by the arrival of pepperoni pizza. We have a seven-minute window before the singalong begins. That is our window." Bill checked his tactical wristwatch, which was partially obscured by neon-green ruffled sleeves. He peered nervously at the house's front door. "Balloons are a tactical problem, Molly. They are static-charged. If my sequins brush against them, the pop will alert the CrossFit mother." "That is why you have the distraction kit," Molly said, pointing toward a burlap sack overflowing with high-grade glitter tucked under the passenger seat. She grinned with predatory delight. "Glitter? That is essentially biological warfare. We agreed on smoke bombs." "Glitter is a tactical concealment cloud. If things go south, you deploy the sparkles and disappear into the chaos. Do you have the bubble gun?" Bill checked the safety on his plastic weapon and then tucked it into a hidden holster sewn into his oversized polka-dot waistband. "Loaded. But I still think the bouncy castle remains the primary threat. Those children are like piranhas in party hats." "Just keep honking that handheld horn. It creates a Pavlovian response of deep confusion in the adolescent mind." Bill checked his face paint one last time. He adjusted the tiny hat perched precariously on his bald, sweaty head. "They ask too many piercing questions about my makeup and my life choices." "This is the big one, Bill. Think of the resale value on those limited-edition cards. Focus on the objective and the prize money." "Fine. I mean it, Molly. But if I get hit by a stray juice box, I am calling for immediate extraction." "Check your rainbow wig. We move in sixty seconds." "The cake is chocolate. I am not leaving without a slice." "Stay professional, Bill. We are here for the toys, not the ganache." Molly grabbed her clipboard and slid the door open with a quiet metallic click, leading them out into the dangerous suburban heat.