"...And the number where I'll be is on the refrigerator," Mrs. DeMarco told Peter, the widower-turned-babysitter, "and if you can keep the boys out of trouble long enough for Senator Ignor's Cialis to work properly, I'll give you a bonus big enough to make a down payment on a house."
As she swept out the door in a cloud of fur wraps and perfume, Peter looked at the thirteen-year-old twins, who said in unison, "We're junior crimefighters."
"Get the police scanner," one said to the other.
Four hours later, Peter was standing in the moonlight by the fountain in the city square, wearing somebody else's shoes, nursing a dull headache, scraping green goo out of his hair, and trying to keep pace with two rambunctious wolves. "If you're not back home and in bed when your mother returns," he said sternly, "I'll tell all your classmates that I caught one of you crying at the end of Clueless and the other holding a stick of butter while viewing some very unusual Mongolian pornography, and neither one of you will find a girl willing to date you until you're thirty-five years old."
Their bodies returned to human form. Two scrawny thirteen year-old boys knelt before Peter with blood-smeared chests, entrails and body fluids dripping onto the ground. They washed each other in the fountain, dressed in clean clothing and departed.
In a distant city, a widower and his two sons bought a house, enrolled in school, played sports and lived quiet lives.
And woe to the criminals and nameless unfortunates who crossed their path on the night of the full moon.