Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GW8H7GFT21WV3QPRSSXG69

Molly peered through the bushes. "Twenty-seven kids, one bouncy castle, zero security." "Zero?" Bill said. "There's a clown." "A clown isn't security, Bill." "That clown made a balloon animal that looked exactly like my parole officer. That's a threat." "Focus. We go in as caterers." "We're not caterers." "We're wearing aprons." "Those are bibs." "Bibs, aprons—semantics. We load the presents into the van during the magic show." "Which present do we take first?" "All of them." "The one shaped like a bike?" "Especially the bike." "Fine. Bike first, then literally everything else." "You can't fit a bike in a duffel bag." "Then we wheel it out." "Wearing bibs?" "Caterer bibs. Stop asking questions." "What if the clown recognizes us?" "Why would the clown recognize us?" "Because the clown IS my parole officer." Molly stared at him. "Bill. Is that why you didn't want to do the bank job?" "The bank has that same clown. Birthday division." "Your parole officer works birthday parties as a clown?" "Side hustle. Economy's rough." "New plan. We wait for the cake." "Why?" "Because nobody—nobody—watches the presents during cake." "See, this is why you're the brains." "And Bill? Lose the bib."