Run: 2026-09-24-01M39X6RM0DNXBP5WHPQAJJ0PP

The van sat in the far corner of the Sunnydale Community Center parking lot, wedged between a minivan and a Prius covered in family stickers. Through the windshield, Molly watched a banner reading "Happy 6th Birthday, Timmy!" flap in the breeze like a taunt. The smell of buttercream frosting drifted through the vents, thick enough to taste. Inside that building sat forty pounds of shrink-wrapped loot—plastic castles, toy dragons, and enough gift cards to fund their retirement in Boca Raton. Retirement had been the plan. Retirement, or at least a very long vacation. Bill adjusted the hot dog costume crumpled in his lap. The bun was made of felt. The wiener was foam. He looked like a man who had lost a bet with a deli. He'd argued for the ninja disguise. Molly had vetoed it, citing "historical inaccuracies" and "the fact that ninjas don't sell hot dogs." It was a compromise that satisfied absolutely no one. "I still don't see why we couldn't rob a jewelry store," he said. "This feels wrong." "Wrong? We stole a Fabergé egg from a nun." Molly spread the blueprints across the dashboard, weighting the corners with coffee cups. "The kid's parents own three car dealerships. This isn't a heist, it's a redistribution of wealth." "A redistribution with a bouncy castle." "The bouncy castle is a distraction. The real problem is the pony." Bill went pale. "The pony?" "Sir Galahad. Retired police horse." She tapped a red circle on the diagram. "He can smell fear. And corn dogs." "That's a very specific smell combination." "That's why you're wearing the costume." She traced the route with her finger. Back entrance, through the kitchen, past the ice cream table. Ninety seconds, in and out, before anyone noticed the presents were gone. The plan was elegant. Simple. Foolproof, which was exactly what worried her, because Bill was involved. Last month he'd set off a museum's alarm system by sneezing. Twice. He slumped in his seat, the foam wiener drooping against the dashboard. The felt bun flopped over his forehead like a sad hat. "If I get trampled by a police pony, I want it noted that I died doing something stupid." "Noted. Now remember, you're Frank the Frankfurter. I'm Aunt Carol." "Nobody will believe you're an aunt." "I have a cardigan and a purse full of butterscotch candies. I am extremely believable." Molly slid out of the van and smoothed her wig. The afternoon sun glinted off the community center's windows. Somewhere inside, a clown was already twisting balloons into shapes that looked less like dogs and more like existential crises. The clown was sweating. She checked her watch. Timmy would blow out his candles in twenty minutes. After that, the presents would be stacked by the door for easy loading—easy for her, anyway. Bill pulled the hot dog hood over his head, breathing through the felt. "If that pony eats me, tell my ex-wife she was right about everything." "That's the spirit, Frank."