Run: 2026-07-01-01KWEAASSA7M92AX8BBZT2622B

The rain hammered against the windshield as Molly checked her makeup in the visor mirror, adjusting the ridiculous clown wig for the third time. "I still don't understand why I'm the clown," Bill said, tugging at his rainbow suspenders like they were personally insulting him. "Because you have the face for it," Molly said. "Naturally punchable. Kids will trust you immediately." "That's not comforting." "It wasn't meant to be comforting, Bill. It was meant to be true." Bill turned the van around the corner, easing past a row of manicured hedges. Somewhere beyond them, balloons bobbed above a backyard, and the tinny sound of a bounce house generator hummed like a dying appliance. "Remind me why we're robbing an eight-year-old's birthday party," Bill said. "This feels like a new low, even for us." "It's not the eight-year-old, it's the guest list," Molly said, pulling a laminated card from her jacket. "Every kid at that party belongs to somebody with money. Tech money. Crypto money. The kind of parents who buy their children solid gold Nintendo Switches because plastic ones feel 'inauthentic.'" "So we're stealing presents." "We're stealing an *opportunity*, Bill. Those gifts are going to be loaded with jewelry, watches, first-edition comics worth more than your car." "My car is worth four hundred dollars." "Exactly my point." Bill parked the van behind a dumpster two houses down, cutting the engine. Rain continued its assault, blurring the porch lights into halos. "What's my motivation supposed to be?" he asked, checking his reflection in the side mirror, grimacing at the red nose Molly had glued to his face an hour earlier. "As the clown, I mean. Method acting requires motivation." "Your motivation is: balloon animals, then bathroom break, then you slip out to the garage where the gift table's been relocated for 'safekeeping.'" "That's not motivation, that's blocking." "Bill, we don't have time for your community theater trauma right now." He sighed, popping open the glove compartment to retrieve a small crowbar disguised inside a foam pool noodle. "And you're the caterer?" "I'm the caterer's assistant. Low profile. Nobody remembers the assistant." "They'll remember if you drop a tray of cupcakes." "I'm not going to drop the cupcakes, Bill." "You dropped the champagne flutes at the Hendricks wedding." "That was different. Those flutes were slippery and also, frankly, poorly designed." Bill opened the van door, letting the rain spill in sideways. "Fifteen minutes. In and out. No improvising." "When have I ever improvised?" "The Hendricks wedding." "That was a *response* to the flutes, Bill, not improvisation." He shook his head, tucking the crowbar-noodle under his arm like some absurd talisman. "Just—stick to the plan. Balloon animals, bathroom, garage, gifts, gone." Molly smiled, grabbing her tray of fake cupcakes from the back seat. "Try not to terrify any children, clown boy." "No promises," Bill muttered, stepping into the storm.