Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HYQN2R661B2BHXN767GGD

Molly adjusted her fake mustache in the rearview mirror of their getaway car, a suspiciously orange 1997 Buick with a cracked windshield and a bumper sticker that read "My other ride is your inventory." "Okay, Bill," she said, flipping through a dossier thicker than a phonebook and twice as threatening. "Walk me through the plan." Bill was busy assembling what appeared to be a rainbow-colored vacuum cleaner. He didn't look up. "We go in disguised as the entertainment." "The entertainment." "Clowns, Molly. I bought the suits online. Fifteen dollars each, shipping included." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "You bought them from a guy named 'DefinitelyNotAVirus.exe' on a forum, didn't you?" "He had great reviews." "They were all from his mom, Bill." Bill finally looked up, wounded. "The mom is a discerning customer, Molly. A discerning customer with a computer." He gestured grandly with a squeaky rubber chicken. "Here's the play. Birthday party. Two o'clock. Twenty-seven seven-year-olds hopped up on sugar and collective delusion. They won't notice two more adults in face paint." "You've clearly never met a seven-year-old," Molly said. "They notice everything. They once caught me sneaking a second dessert at a barbecue." "That's because you went back for thirds in the same apron." "The apron was a reasonable disguise!" Bill patted the rainbow vacuum. "This is the centerpiece. Industrial strength. Hose attachment. We roll in, do the whole balloon-animal routine, and while the parents are filming on their phones, we suck up every wrapped present into this thing." "And then?" "And then we roll out the front door singing 'Happy Birthday' while the children applaud, mistaking our exit for the finale." Molly stared at him for a long, suffering moment. "Bill, that is either the most genius or the most catastrophically stupid plan I have ever heard. And I once robbed a man at a salad bar." "It was a cash salad bar, Molly. He owed me money." "He didn't owe you money. You knew his mother." "Allegedly." Bill grinned. "So we're doing this?" Molly sighed, the sigh of a woman who had made many questionable life choices and was about to make another one. She picked up the squeaky chicken and squeezed it. It emitted a long, mournful honk. "We're doing this," she said. "But if I have to make balloon animals, I'm not doing a giraffe. The neck is a structural nightmare." "Deal." Bill revved the engine. "Now put on your red nose, partner. We've got some loot to vroom."