Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TB8HB0FK7V668YNFWZ70XP

The plan, Molly explained, was flawless. A child's birthday party was the softest target in the criminal underworld: no alarms, no guards, and security consisting entirely of a grandfather asleep in a deck chair. Bill studied the blueprint she'd drawn on a napkin, which showed the bouncy castle, the gift table, and a small figure labeled "clown distraction (you)." "Balloons," Molly whispered. "We go in as birthday clowns." "I can't juggle," Bill said. "You don't need to juggle. You need to look unemployable." Bill had concerns. Ethical ones, mostly. Stealing presents from children felt like a new low, and he'd once mugged a Santa. Molly waved this off. The presents, she argued, were mostly plastic junk and one suspiciously large box that definitely contained a trampoline. Think of it, she said, as redistribution. The kid was six. He didn't even pay taxes. The getaway was simple: out the back fence, past the piñata, into a van painted with the words "Dave's Magical Parties." Bill would drive. Molly would carry the loot. The only real risk was the birthday boy's mother, a woman Molly described, with genuine fear in her eyes, as "organized." They synchronized watches. Somewhere inside, twenty children screamed with joy. Bill put on the wig.