Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AGGBTAX6WAHP29XA8KEC6

Thestolen ice cream van wheezed to a stop outside the community center, its engine coughing like an asthmatic dragon. Inside, Molly adjusted her disguise—a neon-green clown wig and a grin that looked permanently painted on. The wig smelled faintly of popcorn and sadness. "Remember, Bill, when we go in, you’re my hapless assistant. A bumbling janitor who can’t fold a mop to save his life." Bill, draped in a janitor’s uniform two sizes too big, frowned at his reflection in the van’s cracked side mirror. A dandruff snowstorm rained down as he shifted. "I look like a man who just gave up on life. Or like someone who lost a very one-sided fight with a lawn mower." Molly clapped him on the back, nearly sending him face-first into the dash. "Perfect. That’s exactly the energy we’re going for. When people see you, they’ll think, *‘Oh, there goes that poor bastard,’* and look the other way." Bill eyed the box of tools at his feet, which actually contained a single rusty wrench and a half-eaten sandwich. "You sure about this plan? Stealing from kids is one thing. Stealing from kids dressed like a reject from a horror flick is another." Molly waved a dismissive hand, sending a cloud of glitter from her sleeve into the air. "Clowns are harmless. Besides, if anyone asks, we’re there to ‘enhance the party experience.’ Volunteer work. Community service." Bill groaned. "We’re gonna get arrested and put on a sex offender registry before we even find the presents." Molly pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and smoothed it out. It was a napkin with a crayon drawing of the community center floor plan. "Security’s lax. The storage closet’s in the back, next to the bathrooms. Bathrooms are the universal distraction—nobody wants to linger near them." Bill squinted at the napkin. "You drew this on a napkin from the taco place down the street." Molly shrugged. "Details. Now, repeat after me: *‘Greetings, children! Have you been behaving for your parents?’*" Bill took an imaginary clipboard from her hands and cleared his throat. "‘Greetings, children! Have you been behaving for your parents?’ What’s next? *‘Now let’s see who’s been naughty or nice?’* Do we hand out coal?" Molly rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Close enough. The point is to blend in. When the piñata comes out, timing is key. You keep everyone distracted with your sparkling personality—which, let’s be honest, is mostly static—and I’ll work on the storage closet." Bill heaved a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand poor life choices. "And if the closet’s locked?" Molly pulled out a suspiciously shaped hairpin and winked. The hairpin was actually a bent coat hanger with a bit of tape on it. "Then I’ll do what I do best." Bill eyed the coat hanger with the gravitas of a man who had just seen his own obituary. "That thing looks like it came from a dollar store charm bracelet. Or a medieval torture kit." Molly scoffed. "It’s a precision lockpick set. Or, you know, whatever I found in the back of my junk drawer after the—" She stopped herself, realizing she’d said too much. The back of her junk drawer after *what*, exactly? Bill rubbed his temples so hard he nearly dug himself a cave. "We’re going to die in a ball pit. Or worse—we’ll get stuck in one, and some kid will mistake us for part of the decorations." Molly patted his cheek with a glove that hadn’t been washed in weeks. "Relax. This is going to be easier than stealing candy from a baby." Bill paused, then narrowed his eyes. "Wait, we’ve actually done that, haven’t we?" Molly grinned, her painted-on smile stretching even wider if that were possible. "And that’s why we’re professionals." Outside, the sounds of a children’s party could be heard—high-pitched laughter, the tinny notes of a kazoo rendition of *Happy Birthday*, and the periodic shriek of delight that was either joy or the early warning signs of a meltdown. Molly took one last swig of her energy drink, the neon liquid sloshing ominously. She cracked her knuckles, sending a spray of glitter into the air. "Time to get to work." Bill adjusted his janitor’s hat, which kept slipping over his eyes. "I should’ve gone to trade school." Molly was already halfway out the door, her oversized shoes flapping against the pavement. "Come on, Bill. Where’s your sense of adventure?" Bill hesitated for a moment, then followed, muttering under his breath like a man walking to his own execution. "Buried under a mountain of regret, that’s where."