Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ81PYF9FR1NPNMAF5QV6K4

Molly crouched behind a towering inflatable castle, adjusting her clown nose while eyeing the room. Balloons bobbed like drunken ghosts above a cluster of birthday cakes, and a disco ball cast suspicious glints over the horde of shrieking tots. Bill, dressed as a caricature of a party clown with a lopsided afro, fidgeted with a remote control for the "professional" balloon artist he’d rented from a shady online vendor. “You sure the parents won’t miss all this stuff?” he muttered, gesturing to the mound of unwrapped gifts beneath the snack table. “They’ll be too busy arguing over whose kid ate the last cupcake,” Molly said, peeling off her false eyelashes and replacing them with a more subtle set. She’d stolen them from a cosmetics counter last week—*and now they’re stealing back*, she thought grimly. Bill tripped over a deflating zebra piñata, spilling confetti like a scene from a warzone. “Why do we need *two* people to rob a party? What if someone notices us?” “Someone’s always noticing,” Molly grunted, hauling him upright. “Just don’t blow anything up. Kids don’t handle explosions well.” As if on cue, a child in a dinosaur costume slammed into Bill, sending him toppling into a glitter cannon. The device detonated, showering the room with iridescent specks. Molly facepalmed while Bill babbled, “I thought that was activated by *motion*! Not *madness*!” When the chaos died down, they debated whether to hide the loot in the bounce house or the piñata. “The bounce house is too obvious,” Molly said. “Piñata’s already been hit. What’s the harm in one more body?” Bill stared at her, covered in cake frosting and existential dread. “Why do I get the feeling we’re the *present* here?” Unbeknownst to them, a toddler had tied their getaway rope to a helium tank. As they inched toward the door, the tank tugged free, dragging Molly upward by her hair. Bill, overcome by panic and the scent of punch(flavor: mystery), yelled, “I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING!” and tackled her into the nearest cake, swallowing their plans in a merge of strawberry filling and humiliation.