Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE91PVDM8JC80EH9ZG9CMWS

The rain hammered against the window of the beat-up Chevy as Molly checked her makeup in the visor mirror one last time. Bill sat beside her, fumbling with a bag of balloons like they were live grenades. "I still don't understand why I have to be the clown," Bill said, pulling at the collar of his rainbow wig. "Because I'm the one who can actually talk to children without sounding like I'm reading a hostage note," Molly said, snapping the visor shut. "I can talk to children." "Bill. Last week you told the neighbor's kid that Santa was 'a seasonal contractor with questionable labor practices.'" "He asked a follow-up question! I answered honestly!" Molly sighed and reached into the back seat, pulling out a clipboard covered in balloons and glitter. "Okay, focus. The party starts at two. Presents are on the table by the back window, wrapped and stacked like a Christmas display at a mall. We go in, you do your little juggling thing—" "It's not a little juggling thing, it's a whole routine—" "—and I distract the parents with the whole 'face painting' bit while we case the room. Then, when everyone's outside for the piñata, we grab the loot and we're gone before the cake's even cut." "That's the plan? That's the whole plan?" "That's the whole plan." Bill stared at her. "Molly, we are robbing an eight-year-old's birthday party." "We are robbing a very *rich* eight-year-old's birthday party. Do you know how much stuff rich people buy for these things? I saw an invitation with a hologram pony on it. A hologram, Bill." "I just think there's a moral line somewhere, and I feel like children's birthday presents might be past it." "There is no line. There's a spreadsheet. And that spreadsheet says we need forty grand by Friday or Sal breaks both our kneecaps, in that specific order, kneecaps first." Bill exhaled and pulled the red nose from the glovebox, turning it over in his hands like it might bite him. "Fine. But if any kid cries, I'm out. Immediately. I don't do crying children." "They won't cry. You'll be too busy juggling and I'll be too busy painting butterflies on faces for anyone to notice a few boxes going missing." "A few boxes? Molly, we're taking *all* of them." "Semantics." He put on the nose. It honked softly in the quiet car. Molly almost smiled. "Showtime," she said, opening the door into the rain. Bill grabbed the balloon bag and followed her, muttering, "I want it on record that I raised concerns." "Noted," Molly called back over her shoulder. "Now go make some kids happy, clown boy. We've got a party to rob."