Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2G5SGHB1MDTB8FSDMSPAED

“You sure about this, Bill?” Molly whispered, peering through the hedge at the inflatable bounce castle. “These are kids. Like, actual tiny humans.” “Exactly,” Bill said, adjusting his fake mustache. “Children’s parties are gold mines. Parents go broke on wrapping paper alone. We walk in, smash the piñata—accidentally on purpose—and during the chaos, we pocket every gift bag.” “And what about the parents? They’re not blind.” “They’re distracted. Cake, face painting, that one kid who always cries. Timing’s everything. I’ve got the decoy: a puppet that squirts mustard.” Molly squinted. “You’re going to puppet your way past a bunch of six-year-olds?” “It’s called misdirection. I’ll be ‘Silly Splotch the Clown,’ they’ll love me. You slip around back, grab the haul. Meet by the clown car.” “We don’t have a clown car.” “I rented a lime-green Smart Car. Same difference.” Molly sighed. “And if a kid cries? Because they will.” “Then we cry too, but louder. We’re professionals, Mol.” She stared at the streamers, the balloon arch, the looming threat of juice boxes. “Fine. But if I get glitter on my new gloves, you’re buying me dinner.” “Deal. Now come on—Silly Splotch needs an audience.”