Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE99V6261KMX1K8WSCXT4Y7

The back room of Bill's apartment smelled like stale pizza and desperation. Molly spread the blueprints across the coffee table, careful not to spill her lukewarm coffee on the crayon drawing that served as their only intel. "So let me get this straight," Bill said, squinting at the paper. "We're robbing an eight-year-old's birthday party." "Not just any eight-year-old," Molly said. "Tommy Fitzgerald. Whose father happens to be the guy who sold us out to the Vasquez crew." "So this is revenge." "This is justice. With presents." Bill leaned back, the couch springs groaning in protest. "There's gonna be, what, twenty kids there? Clowns? Face painting? How do two grown adults sneak into a birthday party without looking like the plot of a horror movie?" Molly grinned and pulled a folded costume from her bag. "We're not sneaking in as ourselves." "Oh no." "Oh yes." She unfurled the fabric with a flourish. A rainbow wig sat atop a garish polka-dot jumpsuit. "Absolutely not," Bill said. "Bill. You're the clown. I'm the balloon artist." "I don't do balloons." "You don't need to do balloons, you need to look like you do balloons. There's a difference." He crossed his arms. "What's the actual plan here, Mols? We can't just walk out the front door with an armful of Tonka trucks. Someone's gonna notice." "That's why we're not walking out the front door." She traced a route on the drawing with her finger. "Presents get piled on the back patio table before the party, right? Standard birthday setup. We arrive early for 'setup,' load everything into the balloon delivery van parked in the alley, and we're gone before the first slice of cake gets cut." "And the actual party? The actual kids?" "Never even see us. We're ghosts, Bill. Colorful, face-painted ghosts." Bill picked up the wig, turning it over like it might bite him. "This feels like a lot of effort for petty revenge." "It's not petty if it's satisfying." "That's not how the law works." "Good thing we're not lawyers." Molly snatched the wig back and tossed it at his chest. "Look, Fitzgerald's got insurance on everything in that house. He'll get reimbursed. The kid gets new toys eventually. Everybody wins, except Fitzgerald's ego, which frankly deserves to lose." Bill studied her for a long moment, then sighed and pulled the wig over his head. It sat crooked, one curl drooping over his eye like a rainbow-colored comb-over. "I look ridiculous." "You look like Bobo the Magnificent, professional balloon sculptor and children's entertainer." "There's no way that name is on any business card." "There absolutely is. I had them printed yesterday." She handed him a card, cream-colored with gold lettering. He read it twice, disbelief creasing his forehead. "You planned my clown name before you told me I was gonna be a clown." "I know you, Bill. You'd have said no to the plan, but you can never say no to a good bit." He looked at the card again, then at the wig in the mirror, then back at her. "...What time do we need the balloons ready?"