Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ7SQMPSVRNSYQQ14Z1PF9C

Molly adjusted her ski mask. “You’re telling me the only time the clown’s not guarding the loot is during the ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ game?” Bill nodded, checking his watch. “It’s a two-minute window, tops. The clown has to go backstage to cry.” “Cry? He’s a clown, Bill. Isn’t that part of the job?” “He told me. Said the kids keep pinning the tail on his face. It’s humiliating.” “Still, how do we know the cake isn’t rigged?” “The cake? Molly, what are you—?” “I read about this. Fancy parties. Trap cake. You slice it, alarm goes off, confetti cannons shoot netting. Happened in Belgium.” “That was a Bond film.” “Still! We can’t be sure. What if the birthday kid is a genius? Seven years old, builds laser grids in his sleep.” Bill squinted through the window. “He’s currently trying to eat glitter.” “Distraction technique. Classic misdirection.” “I think he’s just a kid with poor impulse control.” “So was Hannibal Lecter at nine.” Bill sighed. “Look, we go in when the clown sobs in the supply closet. We grab the presents, no names on tags—clean resale. Easy.” “What if they’ve got balloon animals guarding the loot?” “Balloon animals can’t guard anything unless they’re sword-wielding poodles.” “Never underestimate inflatable espionage.” “Molly, it’s a piñata full of glow sticks and plastic dinosaurs.” “You don’t know that. Could be diamonds. Kid’s rich—look at that robot butler pouring juice.” “That’s Greg. He’s a high school senior, minimum wage.” “Exactly. A spy.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Two minutes. Clown cries. We move. No souvenirs.” “But the tiny cowboy hat…” “No souvenirs.”