Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2FH5Y6M3Y238TMR6B63SEV

Molly was kneeling on Bill’s back to reach the high window of the community centre, her nose pressed against the grimy glass. “I can see a pony,” she said. “A real one?” Bill wheezed, her kneecap digging into his right kidney. “No, Bill, a terrifyingly lifelike piñata. Of course a real one. Why would they have a real pony at a seven-year-old’s party?” “Rich people, Moll. Rich people breed tiny horses for their tiny heirs. I saw a documentary. Get off me, I’ve inhaled a carpet tile.” Molly hopped down, brushing dust from her cargo trousers. “It’s not a petting zoo situation, it’s a unicorn party. The pony is wearing a felt horn glued to a bridle. It looks profoundly humiliated. This is the perfect cover;5 everyone will be looking at the depressed mythical creature.” Bill sat up, massaging his spine. “Okay. Run it again. Why are we stealing the presents of a child who still believes in unicorns?” “Because that child’s father is a regional manager for a mid-level pharmaceutical company and he’s invited his equally middle-management friends, all of whom are locked in a passive-aggressive gift-giving arms race,” Molly said, tapping her temple. “I intercepted a mother in the organic food aisle. She was panicking. Said she had to ‘beat the Smythes’ gift’ or her son would be a social pariah by Year Three. We’re not looking at stuffed animals, Bill. We’re looking at tablets, designer junior hiking gear, and a solid-gold fidget spinner.” “A solid-gold fidget spinner isn’t a real thing.” “It is if you hate both money and your own fingers. The point is, it’s a piñata of consumer durables in there, and we’re the stick.” Bill stood up, brushing himself down with a defeated sigh. “So we just waltz in.” “No, we do not waltz. Waltzing is memorable. We are not memorable. We are the caterers,” Molly said, producing two pastel polo shirts from her backpack. “Wendy’s Whimsical Wiches. Wendy is an old friend. She owed me a favour involving a parking ticket and a man who isn’t her husband. We’re on sandwich and unicorn-poop marshmallow duty.” Bill stared at the shirt. It was salmon pink. “This is a hate crime against my complexion.” “Your complexion will survive. Now, the critical window is the cake-cutting,” Molly continued, pacing. “All eyes on the infant tyrant smashing a sugar effigy of himself. You will be refilling the slushy machine, causing a high-pitched, brain-scrambling distraction. I’ll be removing the gifts from the glitter-table and stashing them in the empty industrial-sized mayonnaise containers in our van. The parents will all be crying, because their child is four and a half and this moment of performative joy is all they have left. Nobody looks at the sandwich artist when a toddler is elbow-deep in buttercream.” “What about the clown?” Bill asked. “The what?” “The clown. They always have a clown. A hungover drama student with balloon animals. He will see us. Clowns are perceptive, Moll. It’s a fact. The makeup acts as a psychological barrier that heightens their observation skills.” Molly stopped pacing and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. You deal with the clown. I’m not negotiating with a man in face paint.” “I’ll bribe him with a mini quiche and the promise of a better gig doing corporate team-building. Clowns hate children, deep down. It’s the adults they truly long to disappoint.” Molly nodded, a slow grin spreading. “Good. Excellent. Now,16 the most important16 part. You have to commit to the character. Wendy’s Whimsical Wiches staff are aggressively cheerful. You must smile until your eyes look dead enough to pass for a person who genuinely loves crafting a swan out of a napkin.” Bill pulled the salmon shirt over his head, his face a mask of profound tragedy. “I’ve already got the dead eyes,” he said. “Let’s go steal a bouncy castle fund.”