By Mark Onspaugh
The Wolfman roared, his eyes glowing bright red, his massive yellowed fangs slick with saliva and blood.
My little brother Matty, who had been checking out a costume, jumped, the plastic Iron Man mask clattering to the floor of Target’s Halloween department.
The werewolf ripped his head off, revealing the laughing face of David Destler.
“Some Avenger you’d make! Bet you wet your Pampers!”
“Come on, David, give him a break,” I said. I was holding a zombie makeup pack and trying to figure how much that and the Iron Man costume would be with tax.