Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94XEXMSS3K0NAWD478KBNJ

Bill adjusted his binoculars, which were two toilet paper rolls taped together because Molly didn't trust him with the real glass after the incident in the petting zoo. He stared intensely at the suburban fortress of 42 Maple Drive. A primary-colored bouncy castle wheezed on the front lawn like a dying mythical creature, its plastic turrets swaying in the light breeze of the cul-de-sac. "The perimeter is soft, Molly," Bill whispered. "But the juice box intake is heavy. We’re looking at twelve hostiles under the age of seven." Molly didn't look up from her blueprint, which was actually a grease-stained napkin sketch of the Johnson family’s living room. She tapped a pencil against her chin, her eyes darting between a bin of tactical tutus and a bag of industrial-strength purple glitter. The interior of the van smelled of copper, stale coffee, and a very aggressive brand of vanilla car freshener. This was the big one. "The high chair is the pivot point," Molly said. "Once the cake drops, the target distraction window opens. It’s four minutes of pure frosting-induced chaos. Stay frosty." Rumor on the playground was that little Timmy’s grandmother had brought the limited edition Galactic Defender set, a toy so rare it could pay off Molly’s mountain of library fines and Bill’s gambling debts to a local goldfish enthusiast. Bill reached for a camouflage-painted juice box, his hand trembling slightly. He had been a professional for years, but children’s parties were different. The rules of engagement were written in crayon. "What about the guy in the oversized shoes?" Bill asked. "He looks like he’s packing heat. Or a very long balloon." "That’s a clown, Bill. He’s a mercenary. He’ll fold the moment we offer him a better dental plan." The lawn was littered with discarded plastic swords and a single, lonely flip-flop. High-pitched screams echoed from behind the picket fence, sounding less like celebration and more like a tribal war cry. "I'm worried about the bouncy castle," Bill admitted. "That kid in the Spiderman mask hasn't moved from the entrance for twenty minutes." "Spiderman is distracted by grape soda," Molly replied. "When the piñata takes the first hit, that’s our signal. No toy left behind." "Do we have to leave the glitter?" Bill asked. "It seems cruel." "The glitter is the signature, Bill. Now, hand me that tactical party blower." Molly checked her watch. It was 2:14 PM. In exactly one minute, the sugar rush would peak, and the structural integrity of the party would begin to crumble under the weight of an impending nap-time crisis. She pulled a pair of Mickey Mouse ears over her hair and adjusted her dark sunglasses. Bill mirrored her, though his ears were slightly lopsided. "Stick to the plan, Bill. We aren't here for the cake." "I'm serious," Molly added. "Roger that," Bill said. Outside, the sound of off-key screaming intensified as a teenager in a pizza uniform approached the front door. Molly gripped the door handle, her knuckles white. She took a deep breath of the stale van air one last time. "Go time."