Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8ZXGVY6XC1TJZFDRABBDB

Molly crouched behind a potted plastic dinosaur, its googly eyes swiveling with the breeze. “Bill, are you *sure* the cupcakes are a distraction?” Bill adjusted his ski mask. “No, Molly. The cupcakes are not the distraction. The distraction is Dave in the chicken suit.” “Dave’s not even here!” “He’s pulling up in the taco truck *right now*,” Bill said, pointing at a lime-green van screeching into the cul-de-sac. “And he’s armed with free guacamole samples.” Molly squinted. “Oh no. He’s doing the dance.” “He’s doing *the dance*.” Outside, a man in a giant, feathered yellow suit was shimmying toward the inflatable bouncy castle, flinging avocado scoops into the air. Children shrieked with ecstasy, abandoning piñata duty for free snacks. Molly sighed. “Alright, Operation Tinsel Takedown is go. But if we get arrested by a six-year-old with a Nerf gun—” “We’ll say we’re undercover parents,” Bill snapped. “Now, did you bring the loot sack?” She held up a red velvet bag with teeth marks on one side. “Dental emergency en route. Dog.” “Whose dog?” “The neighbor’s. He thought it was Easter.” “…You stole a loot sack from an Easter bunny?” “It was tactical! He was suspiciously agile.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Fine. Just—stay low. We wait until the magician starts the ‘rabbit in a blender’ trick. That’s when everyone screams.” “That’s not a real magic trick.” “It is at Timmy’s parties. Last year the rabbit came out with sequins on its fur.” They scuttled toward the garage, where a rainbow banner proclaimed: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIMMY!!! (You’re 7!)”. Balloons bobbed like drunken sentries. Molly tugged at the side door. Locked. “Plan B?” “Plan B was Dave not forgetting the bolt cutters.” “He brought maracas.” “He said they’re for *ambience*.” Molly groaned and kicked the door lightly. It swung open. “Seriously?” “What?” “It wasn’t locked.” “Oh. I must’ve jimmied it earlier.” “You didn’t.” “I… may have panicked and tried five minutes ago.” “You *idiot*. You could’ve set off the alarm!” “There’s no alarm, Molly. It’s a garage full of Play-Doh and juice boxes.” “Still! Protocol!” They tiptoed inside. The stash was everything they’d dreamed: glitter-wrapped boxes stacked near a sagging banner that said “THE PRESENTS ARE FOR TIMMY (NOT YOU)”. Molly started stuffing gifts into the mangled sack. “This one’s heavy. Probably a chemistry set.” “Or lead bricks disguised as Legos.” “You’re paranoid.” “I’m practical. Last time we underestimated children’s toys, you got stuck in a Sock Monkey plush.” “That thing fought dirty.” Suddenly, a tiny voice piped up: “Are you the new clowns?” They froze. A boy in a pirate hat stood in the doorway, sucking a lollipop the size of his face. Bill dropped a gift. “Uh… yes! We’re… backup entertainers.” Molly jumped in: “Specializing in… present relocation!” The pirate boy nodded sagely. “Mom said no stealing.” Bill laughed nervously. “Oh, we’re not stealing. We’re… redistributing excess holiday energy.” Molly: “Yeah! Into a more aerodynamic sack.” The boy narrowed his eyes. “You’re bad at lying.” Suddenly, Dave’s chicken suit burst through the front yard door, yelling, “I’M THE GUACAMOLE GHOST!” and tripped into the cake. Molly and Bill exchanged glances. Molly: “Go.” They bolted, the sack bursting at the seams, scattering tiny robots, doll strollers, and one very fragile-looking ukulele. Behind them, the pirate boy shouted, “I’LL TELL TIMMY!” then paused. “…Can I keep the ukulele?”