Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2J6BX2VKKGQCJT7RDKCNJM

Molly squinted through the binoculars at a suburban house that looked like a unicorn had vomited rainbows all over it. She lowered the lenses and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I’ve lost the ability to perceive the colour beige,” Molly said. Bill, wedged beside her in the stolen ice cream van, was applying clown makeup using the rearview mirror. His attempt at a cheerful grin made him look like a man recovering from a startled lip surgery. “Beige is for people who pay for gifts. My honking nose is on crooked. Do I look trustworthy?” Bill asked. “You look like a man who lures children with a single tear and a vague sense of doom,” she said. “Perfect. What’s our entry vector?” She consulted a purple glitter-encrusted invitation they’d lifted from a mom in a parking lot. “According to this, the entertainment arrives via the side gate. That’s us. You’re Bumbles the Clown, I’m your exhausted handler.” “And what’s Bumbles’ defining characteristic, artistically speaking?” he asked, ruffling a polka-dotted neck ruff. “You trip over things,” she said. “A lot. That’s the chaos. While you’re pratfalling through the piñata, I’m the distracted adult wheeling a very large, very empty gift-wrapped box toward the present table.” Bill practiced a sorrowful expression. “Pity. I was hoping to debut my mime act. A man trapped in a box of his own existential greed.” “Save the pathos for the birthday boy. He’s turning five. He’ll think you’re a silent fart joke,” she said.