Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2G8PB7J04DYDR0F7ZQ2W5R

“I’m telling you, Bill, it’s a goldmine.” Molly jabbed a finger at the crumpled flyer on the table. “Thirteen seven-year-olds. Balloons. A bouncy castle. And a mountain of wrapped treasure.” Bill squinted at the ink. “You mean presents.” “Presents are treasure when you’re seven. And their parents are rich.” Molly leaned back in the creaky diner booth. “The theme is unicorns. There’s a piñata shaped like a rainbow.” “I’m not hitting a piñata with a seven-year-old.” “You won’t have to. You’re the distraction.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Distraction. At a unicorn party. What’s my cover? Sparkle clown? Magical llama handler? Because I draw the line at a unitard.” “No unitard,” Molly said. “You’re the balloon guy.” “I don’t do balloon animals. I tried once. Made a poodle that looked like a scrotum.” “You’re not making animals. You’re making swords.” “Swords. For children.” “Swords pay, Bill. They’re easy. Two twists, a fold. They love them. While you’re handing out balloon weaponry, I slip through the back gate, hit the gift table, and we’re gone before the parents realize the piñata’s been looted.” Bill picked at a fry. “And how do I explain the tactical vest under my polo shirt?” “You don’t. You’re the quirky uncle. The weird one who smells like menthol and regret. Kids love that.” “I don’t smell like regret. I smell like cheap cologne and low self-esteem.” “Same diff. Look, the real challenge is the cake. It’s a unicorn cake. Six feet tall. Fondant horn. If you’re not careful, you’ll knock it over and cause a sugary apocalypse.” “Who knocks over a cake on purpose?” “Not on purpose. As a distraction. You bump into it, the kids scream, I grab the haul, we meet at the car.” Bill stared at her. “So my role in this caper is: arrive early, make bad balloon swords, then commit cake-homicide in front of a dozen weeping children.” “It’s a clean job. No violence. Just tears.” “Their tears, or mine?” “Mostly theirs. Yours will be from the shame, which is temporary. I’ve timed the sprinkler system in the backyard. If we’re fast, the parents will blame the crying on the wet grass.” “And if I get caught?” “You’re the balloon guy. You’re a mystery. No one remembers the balloon guy’s face. They remember the crotch-shaped poodle.” Bill sighed, long and deep. “Fine. But I’m not doing the cake. Find another patsy.” “You’re not a patsy. You’re the keystone. The lynchpin. The balletic chaos agent.” “I’m a thief with a latex allergy and a weak knee.” “Perfect. You’ll fit right in with the other broken dads.” Molly slid out of the booth. “I’ll text you the address. Party’s at three. Wear your vest under a cardigan.” “I don’t own a cardigan.” “Buy one. And Bill?” “What?” “Don’t eat the fondant. It’s for the kids. And we’re monsters, but we’re not animals.”