Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6NKMQ41F6MZA7HXD90RT7

Molly unfolded the birthday invitation across the dashboard like it was a bank blueprint. “Right, Bill, here’s the score. Saturday, two o’clock, Little Lord Fauntleroy’s sixth birthday. Thirty kids, one clown, a bouncy castle, and a mountain of presents in the conservatory.” Bill squinted through the van’s windscreen at the balloon arch. “Molly, those aren’t guards. Those are toddlers.” “Toddlers are unpredictable. Worse than guard dogs. One of them bit me at a Christening.” “You were dressed as a dinosaur.” “It was a strategic costume. Focus.” Bill tapped the invitation. “What’s the clown situation?” “Annual leave for Cuddles the Clown. We’re replacing him.” Molly produced two fright wigs and a squeaky red nose. “You’re Chuckles. I’m Pickles. We go in through the entertainer’s entrance, set up the magic show, and while every child is watching you pull a rabbit out of a hat, I’m in the conservatory bagging the loot.” “Where exactly are we getting a rabbit?” “Party City. Receipt’s in the glove box.” Bill rubbed his temples. “And the parents?” “The parents will be drunk on prosecco by two-fifteen. It’s a Saturday. There’s a charcuterie board shaped like a pirate ship.” “What about the birthday boy’s father? I heard he’s built like a fridge.” “He’s doing the school run. We’ve got a window.” “And the nanny?” “Allergic to balloons. She’ll be in the kitchen mainlining antihistamines.” “Convenient.” “I didn’t say convenient. I said tragic.” Bill stared at her. “What about the bouncy castle?” “That’s our escape route. We deflate it at exactly two forty-five, create a diversion, and leave under cover of screaming.” “You want to escape under screaming children?” “It’s not the strangest thing we’ve done. Remember the llama gala?” “We do not speak of the llama gala.” Molly unfolded a crayon drawing she’d stolen from the target’s nanny. “Presents are stacked by the fireplace. I’ve identified three high-value items: a tablet, a remote-control excavator, and a limited-edition stuffed unicorn called Sir Sparklehoof.” “You want to steal a child’s unicorn?” “It’s resale, Bill. Collector’s item. The box alone is worth eighty quid.” Bill tugged at his collar. “I don’t like it. Kids are small and fast and they ask questions.” “That’s why we’re wearing clown makeup. No one questions a clown.” “People question clowns constantly, Molly. That’s the whole point of clowns.” Molly ignored him and clicked a stopwatch. “Timeline. Two o’clock, arrival. Two-oh-five, balloon animal distraction. Two-ten, magic show. Two-fifteen, I slip out during the disappearing handkerchief. Two-twenty, presents bagged. Two-thirty, deflate castle. Two-forty, van. Two-fifty, we’re eating cake.” “We get cake?” “We steal cake, Bill. There’s a difference.” Bill sighed. “Fine. But if a toddler bites me, I’m biting back.” “Professionalism, Chuckles. Professionalism.”