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Is It Scary	By : Idolhands Category: A through F > Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Views: 18216 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Please be aware that the volumes/chapters of this tale are out of order. Be sure to pick the NUMBER of the Volume, not the number assigned by Adultfanfiction.net. I cannot control this problem, sorry and thank you for reading.
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Title: Is It Scary, volume XVIII - Lean, Mean, Candy Making-Machine!
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: Mature Demented Audiences (R)
Warnings: Dark Themes combined with sweet ones, Anthropomorphism/Furry, Alternate Paganism, Violence, dark!Wonka, and an explicit under-aged/adult slash (“shota” or “chan”) relationship. Oh, and Oompa-loompas singing! That’s always a bad sign...
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of Roald Dahl, Tim Burton, Freddie Highmore, Deep Roy, and Johnny Depp. By the same token, they do not own my imagination or myself either. So there! We’re even. Not that they care.
Summary: The subconscious mind, whether we sleep or not, can spin metaphors and weave tapestries leaving us confused as to our own beliefs and inner desires. Getting to school becomes more adventurous than Charlie could have ever expected, though even more so for those who dare to disturb the chocolate maker’s plans either inside or outside his stone palace of candy & dreams. But how much can even Willy Wonka control? Left alone with a trusted family member will the boy finally spill his guts? One thing is certain; it takes guts to read this tale.

"It always feels like, somebody's watching me"

Swudge had the lightest, most pleasant minty flavor that you ever tasted. It practically evaporated as soon as you began to eat it, leaving behind the sweetness of cream and an icy quality to your breath when you’d inhale. Charlie had a mouthful of the refreshing confection speedily dissolving down his own gullet. As the boy leaned his head down to gobble up a bit more, he realized that his posture meant he was on all fours! That was wrong and a bit too close to Augustus and his fate for the child’s liking. However, when he looked at his hands, he found dainty cloven hooves instead. It was then that he realized he was a pink-furred half-sheep boy and as everybody knew, it was perfectly fine for them to spend their time eating mouthfuls of swudge. Silly him for forgetting! Charlie happily wiggled his fluffy stub of a tail and returned to grazing.
It was still nighttime and he appeared to be in something like the Chocolate Room only there was no sign of an Oompa-loompa plus…there was a sky. Still munching, the sheep boy looked wide-eyed up at the lovely twinkling stars and full yellow moon; the golden glow resembling one coming from the windows of the tilted cottage in the distance. The tranquility of the scene was unexpectedly torn as a long, lonesome howl broke out. It was then that he also realized how far from his house and herd he’d migrated. A rustle came from the nearby gumball bushes and exploding candy shrubs. Looking into the shadows he saw a pair of glowing eyes and sharp, white teeth exposed in a smile from ear to ear; a tongue slowly licked across them. It was a wolf-man! Oh no! He’d been warned to stay away from such awful creatures.
A panicked noise, between a shout and a bleat, preceded a mad dash toward the house. The rush of leaves and candy exploding were followed by the swift thumping of clawed feet, alerted Charlie to the fact that he was being chased! He ran faster but the house seemed to only be getting further away as the animal gained on him. A second pitiful noise was emitted as the sizable creature tackled the small bundle, rolling the sheep-boy onto his back. Expecting to be gnawed on and sliced to ribbons, there was great confusion when the only thing that happened was his face being licked. The boy opened his eyes, blinking. Above him was a familiar smiling face outlined with the dark auburn fur and a pair of long keen ears that rose as pertly as the expression on his face along with a brush of tail wagging excitedly behind the silhouette. Where exposed, the skin was paler than anything he’d ever seen, a band of it exposing chest and abdominal muscles then trailing where he dare not allowed his eyes to fully explore. He remembered that this particular wolf-man was a friend; that this one wouldn’t eat him. He just liked to taste.
They bounded around the lawn playing catch-me-if-you can in the night for a while, until they ended up in a rough wrestling game and the wolf man wouldn’t let him run away again. A familiar voice, masked by an unusual husky quality asked. “Why do you keep trying to get away, little boy? Why do you always run from me?”
“Be-because my family…they wouldn’t like this.” The sheep-boy answered honestly, his wrists gripped tightly.
“A little longer,” He licked at the boy’s gasping throat, “Can’t we play…just a bit longer?”
More licking and nips followed the question as the child moaned and answered, “Uhn, alright …just a bit though…uhhn..”
The playful nipping had gone down his chest and back up to his mouth. The strong wet muscle was placed across the child’s bow-shaped lips with pressure. The boy could feel that the creature on top of him had become aroused and he’d be lying if he denied similar feelings within himself. This was a dangerous game they were playing, with his feelings being the real thing threatening to consume him. He bleated toward the lustful gaze, “I have to go home!” and twisted to run away again.
Instead he was gripped very tightly from behind as a familiar phrase was growled into the curl of his ear, “I want more, Charlie. Give me more.”
He could feel the wolf-man’s own fur brushing up against his exposed flesh, too silky to resist. Both of them were on all fours; probing fingers played with his tail, twirling it a moment before a sensation of being penetrated occurred. “Ahn! No! Stop!”
But the sensation only deepened.
And in a moment, it’s good, very good. “Ugghn...mnn…yessss….”
He felt the sensations of being slid in and out of, the rhythm increased, the motions building and getting rougher as his own heart created the beat to which they were coupling. Deeper growls are emitted and the child feels so small underneath him, overwhelmed and embraced at the same time.
A sharp pain registers as Charlie’s neck is bitten and blood is drawn, but there is little time to focus as both of them reach intense climaxes. Heaving and still interlocked, the boy feels that wonderfully intoxicating, tingling sensation that such activity with this beast leads to. It immediately spreads through his entire bloodstream. The bliss of it causes him to collapse into the soft, long blades of sweet swudge that he was innocently nibbling earlier. He rolled onto his back and looked up at his wild lover with weary, enchanted eyes.
The wolf-man leaned down and started gently licking at the wound that was inflicted. He speaks again, “I never tire of this game of ours little lamb, but I get so cold all alone in my liar. Why won’t you stay with me?”
Through quick pants he replied, “They..need..me.”
“I need you.” Growled back the beast.
“I told you, they wouldn’t like it.” The lamb says sadly.
“But you don’t have to worry about them anymore…” The wolf-man’s face came more clearly into focus, melting unquestioningly into Mr. Wonka, though the demonic animal eyes eerily stayed the same. The man finished his statement by saying in a disturbingly pleasant tone. “…I killed them all.”
A huge gasp filled the small upstairs nook of a bedroom as the boy bolted upright. Still in a daze about what was real and what was fantasy, the child hears his mother’s voice sing up, “Chaarrrlieee, rise and shine sleepyhead!”
“I’m awake.” He responds partly as a response to his mother and partly to reassure himself. To his embarrassment there was a wet, sticky spot between his legs and on his new short kimono sleepwear.
A more urgent message was called up, “You need to get ready quickly sweetheart, there’s a problem!”

At dusk a crowd had begun to gather outside the gates. By the time the sun had risen…it had tripled in size. The people were of many ages and backgrounds, but those in front had come from the media and were prepared with prying cameras and hungry microphones. They wanted a ‘scoop’. But not the yummy sort with sprinkles or chopped nuts on top. No, they wanted the icky sort with grease or lies on top. Word had gotten out, as it often will to the peril of those being discussed, that Charlie Bucket was going to attend school today, that he would have to leave the factory for the first time in months and they could make a newsworthy day of it; the press, the tabloids, the curious, the bored, the huddled masses yearning to abuse freedom at the expense of bombarding a special little person going about his daily business.
On the surface, this scene of anxious Looky-Lous was not dissimilar from the day that Willy Wonka had first opened the factory. Ah, but the chocolatier was quite a different man then and so was his once pristine factory. At this point, Father Time had left a dark residue upon them both and so it would seem the world in general. Nothing had improved outside of the gates during the man’s absence – near as he could tell, the entire planet was on a pathetic downward spiral. And further, these leering individuals had NOT been invited as in times past.
A great metallic yawn accompanied the slim parting of the tarnished hundred foot front doors. The crowd’s excitement was palatable as what appeared to be, “the genius who just can’t be beat” himself was approaching their direction from out of the darkened opening. One echoing click was followed by a short scrape then another click, heard in slow succession against the cement path covered in an eggshell of snow. There were a few murmurs, mumbles, and whispers; the very sort of thing that aggravated Mr. Wonka to no end because he actually could make out about half of what was being said, he couldn’t simply tune it out as most people did. In his youth he heard the ugly things that people said when they thought no one could hear them, he learned quickly how two-faced people could be. Of course the gawkers were talking about him too, as they had in days past. Right now they spoke of their shock that he was a "cripple" or so "decrepit" (as they so delightfully put it) to walk at such a halting pace. He could also distinctly make out “Ch” noises in sentences ending in an upswing pitch that indicated questions and took notice with his eagle eyesight that some of the camera-people’s attention spans was straying. Mustn’t have that. Didn’t come out here in the biting cold for these vulchers and orangutans to cease their gaping in his direction.
Not too far a distance from the gates, Mr. Wonka’s famous walking cane got stuck into a crevice. He walked another two steps then halted, hand ghostly clasping for the missing stick. Actually, the candymaker had been playing up his limp a great deal even though his leg was feeling exceedingly good. He half suspected that there was magic to Charlie’s (the cause of the “Ch” sounds in the audience) kisses or that even the barest glimpse of a Unicorn could have restorative abilities. Whatever the reason, Willy was extremely thankful to be feeling at the top of his game because he was about to pull a stunt that he hadn’t done in a very…long…time…
Hundreds of people together let out gasps and sounds of shock as the form began to slowly collapse forward. Dismay stunned the crowd as his spine curved all the way to the ground. But a fraction of a second later the body had somersaulted and sprung back up in a movement worthy of a trained gymnast rather than a feeble old man. Saucer-sized sunglasses were immediately placed back onto his head along with the signature top hat - each having been carefully held in a hand, suspended from touching the ground during the swift movement.
As Wonka placed today’s rich navy colored haberdashery with white piping upon his head, he remembered how exactingly he’d instructed his barber to ‘slick back’ the sides of his hair that morning. Charlie had said he looked nice that way while he’d lain peacefully in the child’s lap. At this exact moment however, the candymaker was desperately missing that extra sense of coverage the usual coiff afforded him. A small silver hoop was exposed in his left ear, the piercing a holdover from his trip to India long ago. He’d dressed somewhat conservatively in a navy pinstripe vest with matching trousers. But they were no ordinary pinstripes for they were made of metallic, rainbow thread that picked up on the fading rainbow velvet of his coat, drawing from crimson red to deepest violet. A well-starched white shirt with jacquard polka dots flared up toward his throat and down at his wrists nearly covering the usual plastic, purple sheaths that enveloped his extraordinary hands and masked a very important, marred ring. Shiny black shoes embossed with the same initial that flashed at his Adam’s apple and harkened to the banner atop grand gates that did not budge one iota as Mr. Wonka stared at his admirers through his sunglasses. The outfit perfectly complimented the one his young companion had chosen to wear for today, but the crowd would have no way of knowing that for he wouldn’t dream of subjecting such a fragile, precious thing to these droolers; not at the risk of the boy nor at the risk of a single secret possibly being exposed.
The crowd had been applauding steadily for a minute, completely bowled over at the candymaker’s impromptu performance. A sparkling, toothy smile masked the man’s true feelings about the situation. If they knew him at all, they’d know that this smile was used when he was especially annoyed. Microphones were desperately, clumsily shoved through the slats, in between the bars. Willy was at a perfect distance, allowing them close but standing exactly far enough away to prevent them from ever touching him. He thought of cages at a zoo. He thought of the bars that once encased his own face. Must keep them out. A lingering thought of his father swam unwanted through his mind. Shaking hands were quickly stuffed into his pockets and fiddled with a piece of string taken from Grandma Georgina’s knitting basket that he had tied nine knots into. Oh, how he wished Charlie were with him, but of course, these people were the very reason that his special partner was not.
The man stared at the hoard of strangers and the hoard of strangers stared right back at the solitary individual. An uncomfortable swallow proceeded a shifting of his nicely squared shoulders inside the fur-trimmed black overcoat, worn over the dashing outfit. He spontaneously quipped in a dramatic fashion:
“Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushing glen,
We dare not go a-hunting,
For fear of little men.”
There was an awkward, confused silence. It lasted only briefly though.
“Are you Willy Wonka?!” Shouted a man in a dull-looking, modern suit. He practically had on enough bronzer to pass for an overgrown Oompa-loompa (speaking of little men).
“I should hope so since I’m wearin’ his underwear.” Wonka responded with comic sarcasm, grin plastered firmly in place. While excitement had a habit of turning him into a buffoon, anger tended to make him especially glib.
Chuckles came from the crowd followed by a deafening onslaught of more comments and questions:
“Any comment on Veruca Salt murdering her parents?”
“Are the stories about the inside of your factory true?!”
“What’s your Wonkavision™ project all about?”
“Tell us about your new candy and chocolate inventions!”
“Don’t suppose you’d consider letting us in for a tour?”
It was going to be extremely painful to find a way to continue entertaining these squawking idiots, but he had to make this sacrifice. As he had told Charlie, such things would be necessary in their union together, ones far more difficult than this. Today, the burden would be his to bear. Wonka knew the reporter’s curiosity in HIS rare appearance would be enough to keep them distracted temporarily while other balls were put into play…

“Grandpa Joe, slow down, you’re going too fast!” The young boy’s hand was tightly clasped in the elderly man’s bone thin one, though the child’s legs were long for his age, they were no match for his relative’s far longer ones. The eldest Bucket was rushing out of a hidden exit located at the back-end of the factory. Many of the small workers had headed down tunnels far lower in the factory, but two Oompa-loompas had stayed to guide them down the confusing chamber of never-ending tunnels in accordance with Wonka’s quick plans for avoiding the scene at the front, while ensuring that his heir wouldn’t be late for exams that ensured he could continue under his full-time tutelage.
The old man loosened his hold as they rushed through the back streets of their chilly town. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m not used to me new strength yet, or rather…my old strength.”
His grandfather’s very laughter sounded more youthful as he gushed. “Genius! The man is an absolute genius! NO! A miracle worker! That’s what he is!”
For you see, after Mr. Wonka had decided which one of the Bucket’s he trusted the most to RETURN with ‘his heart’ back to the factory, he also figured that a dose of insurance should be added to the equation. That morning, after news of the commotion outside, the inventor brought with him the black bottle of Wonkavite. He’d placed it upon the table, among the breakfast, along with an animated explanation of its magical restorative abilities. A golden light burst out when he removed the cork plug causing shocked alarm. The light seemed to sparkle with fairy dust as it faded in the air.
For the sake of his grandson and despite concerns from the others, Grandpa Joe was brave enough to try a pill of the glowing, vibrating Wonkavite. Everyone sat motionless as he placed it in his mouth and swallowed. Willy had stood surveying the scene with a disturbingly pleased grin on his face. True to the chocolatier’s words, the man felt twenty years younger in only a minute. The nearly one hundred year old man barely looked any different though, much as he hadn’t when he had gone to work in that first candy shop on Cherry Street. However, he started acting as if the pill made him closer to seven instead of seventy! He’d even exclaimed another “Yippee!” and insisted that his wife join him in his jig this time!
As a last warning the chocolatier had stated, “Now, ya gotta remember to follow the warnings. Mustn’t eat too many, one pill is plenty. ‘Kay? All right then, let’s get a move on!”
The old man was currently tucked into an alleyway, checking left then right that no one was following them. “I’m only worried for Mr. Wonka, the faster we get to your school, the sooner he can go back inside his factory. I must say though, this is all terribly exciting, isn’t it?”
Dimples appeared as the boy nodded and grinned, both at that fact and at his grandfather’s giddiness. “Do you think I look alright Grandfather? I-I had wanted to look nice for um, well...heh, everybody I suppose. Um, wasn’t it funny how me and, I mean, Mr. Wonka and I ended up matching without knowing what the other was going to wear?”
His grandfather blinked at the boy’s nervousness, but stated, “Come on. The coast is clear. Let’s go another stretch!”
Once they had crossed another block and determined they were not being observed, did the older man turn to examine the child for a second time that morning. The sweater was slightly oversized, banded tightly by trim, sleeves, and a bottom made from a thick, ribbed charcoal material. Thin stripes of the darker color separated the bold, psychedelic rainbow ones that decorated the entire front and back. His shorts were made of a soft, woolen material with detailed stitching and were cuffed; two buttoned pockets emphasized the back. Long, rainbow striped socks that also bore a thick, ribbed charcoal trim, helped to make up for the lack of pant material. Dark grey served as a nice color against the boy’s fair skin and pinkish undertones. A short proper coat and a beret with a tassel had been added to the ensemble to encourage warmth. Charlie had originally wanted to wear his hand-knitted hoodie by his Grandma Georgina but that was ruled out on account of the bright color being too attention grabbing. But what DID catch the old Bucket’s eye was the thin leather strip of blue-green material tied around the boy’s swan-like throat. Willy had fiddled his fingers and plucked it from the array inside one of the gift boxes himself. “What did he call this again?”
“A bolo.” Charlie said with a slight tenseness. He reached up and tugged at the knot that his mentor had so exactingly placed there. He recalled how, with his back to the family, the man had pulled on it a little more than he needed to – a knowing glance had been exchanged before the ends of the strip were slipped under his collar by cool, gloved hands. Every action made more intense for sake of the disturbing dream that he’d awoken to. The boy continued, attempting to distract from the kinkier notions. “He made me one in every color, sort of my new trademark. They can be worn in lots of ways!”
“Hm.” Grandpa Joe tilted his head upward and examined it briefly. “Don’t pull on it too tightly, that’s a good knot Mr. Wonka tied.”
They crossed another few streets, the boy clinging to his shoulder bag in one hand and what looked like a paint bucket in the other as they dashed. Grandpa Joe laughed again as Charlie made a face and stuck his tongue out at the row of Mr. Wonka’s competitors: Ficklegruber, Prodnose, and Slugworth. The side-by-side stores still bore “CLOSED” signs in their windows, they’d never see, otherwise the Bucket child would never be so rude. The old man joined in the fun and added a reverse two-finger salute along with a raspberry noise as they both laughed louder.
Finally, across from the courtyard of the school, Charlie’s escort turned to him and stated with encouragement, “You look exactly like the little Prince that Willy keeps calling you and I’m not surprised one bit that the two of you chose similar outfits. You both seem quite talented at reading the other one’s mind.”
A VERY proud look was on his face then he placed a long, narrow hand on either side of the boy’s compact shoulders. He lowered his head. The boy’s equally beaming smile faded, “Grandpa, wot is it? Is something wrong?”
“Charlie, some of the family is concerned. I promised…they’ve asked me to talk to you, because…this is the only time we’ve been outside of the factory…” He picked his head up but only glanced at his grandson’s face for a second. As the early morning sunshine hit the side of his sagging face, the child’s keen eyesight saw less of the feathery lines along with the odd chestnut strand within the wealth of silver at the edges. On a man as old as Joe, the visual effects of Wonkavite were subtle, but they were there. “This is your chance to be completely honest. They…they’re worried about…your friendship with Willy….”
The Golden Ticket winner’s eyes were getting glossy; he reached up and placed his hands onto his grandfather’ arms. Emotion overwhelmed Grandpa Joe at the same time, water built up in his eyes as well. Of all of the boy’s family members, he felt THE closest to this one, even more than his mother and father – it was like they could have been brothers instead of Grandparent and grandson, it was why the others must have put him up to this unsavory task. The child suddenly thought he was going to loose all control and start confessing everything from guilt right then and there.
“Charlie, all I want to know, all I need to know is this…” He made eye contact, the boy had a tear streaming down one cheek. There was a gravely serious tone as he continued, “Is Mr. Wonka doing anything, absolutely anything that you DON’T like? That you want him to stop doing?”
A jagged breath of air was released from the child along with another tear from the opposite eye. It was such a fair and careful question. The boy closed his lids as he gained composure, lashes wet with the salty water. He looked back up, irises gem-like in the depth of their color, lips sad and trembling.
A couple of children walked by idly chatting, glancing at the pair:
“Whose the new boy?”
“Poor duck looks scared stiff.”
They both held their poses and waited while the two passed.
Charlie shook his head in a negative. Lying wasn’t necessary, that was the honest to God’s truth. Thinking on the dream, he knew that he didn’t want Mr. Wonka to stop; rather he wanted him to go further. Within him, there was a hidden part that liked very much the way the chocolatier charmed, tempted, and scared his entire being; a part that embraced "the monster". But that was because he also knew that within his mentor was a person who was scared himself, who suffered from intense loneliness and insecurity; someone less like a sheep in wolf’s clothing and more like a lost, black sheep in wolf’s clothing. Searching his soul, he knew his true answer even if insecurities haunted his slumber.
“Honest? You promise me?” Eyes of the palest shade of turquoise rimmed in cobalt peered over a large hooked nose and through thick lenses. Shoulders were squeezed a little tighter with that new strength: anxiety, but nary a trace of anger. His rubber band mouth held an open pose as he waited for reassurance.
“Honest. I love him…with all my heart.” Charlie responded. The tone was even more intense then the first time the child had professed such affection for his benefactor.
The old man kept staring at his grandson and the boy didn’t look away, his eyes sweet, vulnerable, and telling. A silent understanding was exchanged. No further questions needed to be asked.
Grandpa Joe smiled slightly in return and began to speak, his voice was as musical as the chocolatier’s, it only moved to a slower melody. “Then that’s good enough for me. Everyone wants to focus on how different you are, but Willy is different now too. I can see it. I know he cares just as deeply for you. I don’t pretend to understand everything he does, but I do believe he’s a far more remarkable person than any of us realize. You’re so very lucky that he wants to share his world with you and…I dare say he’s lucky to have you as well.”
They gripped each other in a strong hug. The child sniffled into his grandfather’s old coat (purposely worn to attract less attention). He smelled of the rose-based cologne that the candymaker recently created. Leaning his head on the protruding shoulder, the boy said with weight in his pitch, “Thank you, Grandpa Joe. Thank you for understanding.”
A tear came from the old man too as he stared up at the bleak light that managed to penetrate the usually murky sky of their town. His family probably would have insisted on more specific probing, but this child wasn’t the only one trying to hold on to a dream and a hero. What was most important to him was that the boy was happy. He began to recollect his old job at that first shop on Cherry Street and how their employer intimidated the other workers with his peculiarities, aloof nature, and standards of perfection. However, Joe always volunteered to speak to the man whenever there was a problem or message to be conveyed, any chance to see the visionary even if briefly.
There were times, when despite being married to a woman he completely cherished, and despite being a very senior citizen, the chocolatier would leave him confusingly flustered; making him feel terribly young and alive at the same time. He knew it was foolish, but he couldn’t help it, the sensation was as addictive as his chocolate. Willy Wonka was positively magnetic: even people who disliked him, still couldn’t stop staring or talking about him.
“Grandpa?” Charlie sniffled.
“Yes?”
He pulled away to look at the man’s warm, familiar face and stated, “Do you think it’s possible that TWO of us wishing and dreaming so hard at the exact same time put that money in the snow by that corner shop on Main Street so that I could find that very last, true golden ticket?”
That proud smile returned as he answered, “I think your Grandma Georgina was right when she said anything is possible, like having a grandson who is as obsessed with Willy Wonka and his creations as me.”
Grandpa Joe had pulled out a plain white cotton hanky and blew his nose with a loud honk. “Alright, young man. No more faffing around. You go in there and you gobsmack them all! Show your family and that school what less than a month inside the world’s most amazing chocolate factory can do!”
A tiny smile replaced the sad look, cracking into a slightly bigger one at the sight of his grandfather’s anxious expression. The boy was feeling like himself again, the blotches on his barely freckled face fading fast, “Wot’ll you do until I get out?”
“Weeell, you only need to stay half the day, so Mr. Wonka thought I could go about the town and see what the buzz is, bee his eyes and ears as he put it.” Grandpa Joe had emphasized the ‘buzz’ noise and fluttered his hands like tiny bee wings as the candyman did when he explained it. He pondered, “Hm, I believe I’ll start by seeing that kind shop owner since you mentioned it. I’d like to reward him for defending you. After all, I’ve got some spare change since I started working again!”
“I think that’s a fantabulous idea!” The child quoted his mentor’s use of English, kissing his Grandfather on the cheek good-bye. The elderly man stood upright and watched as Charlie dashed toward the school. He looked adorable, like a painting of children from a by-gone era. He enthusiastically waved with his free left hand -- a bright flare caught the gold ring causing it to noticeably twinkle even from a distance.
“Don’t forget to signal him! And your gloves!” Called Grandpa Joe. It was just…easier to disguise the ‘friendship token’ than to explain it and besides, Willy much preferred Charlie to cover his hands anyway. He observed as a look of startlement went across Charlie’s face. The boy immediately pulled out his special pocket watch, pressing a button on the side of it. Then he carefully slid it back into his pocket; a delicate gold chain connecting it to one of the short’s belt loops. Mr. Wonka had said he’d “take care” of the crowd once he knew his heir was safe at school; that he’d make sure they wouldn’t come pester him or show up after the test-taking was done. As the rainbow-clad child entered the building tugging on his yellow gloves, he wondered, “Precisely how will that be arranged?”

A perverse satisfaction rested directly under the mask of kindness on the candymaker’s face. His slightly larger platinum watch had just vibrated inside his vest pocket; the signal that this charade could finally come to an end. He reached in and pulled it out as if checking on the time.
After a lengthy and confusing dissertation on a myriad of subjects that nearly always seemed completely unrelated to the questions posed, frequent accusations of mumbling, as well as the occasional insinuated or forthright insult, Mr. Wonka now elegantly bowed before them. While bent over, his concealed eyes looked back toward the slatted windows where only he could see small, unseen shadows shuffle upon sight of the gallant gesture.
A bold female reporter exclaimed, “Mr. Wonka have you been filling our heads with lies? Half of what you say sounds completely balmy!”
Willy tilted back up and mechanically spun his head in her direction, “My dear old fish, go and boil yer head!”
Some of the others chuckled at her expense. Whether Willy Wonka was brilliant or bonkers might have been up for speculation, but there was no debating the fact that he was definitely entertaining! The audience began to stir somewhat as an odorous smell had seized their noses replacing the heavenly swirl of sugary fragrances that poured from the great chimneystacks. It was quickly growing to a stench, but their curiosity could not be waned. Nobody left.
“How dare you speak to me like that!” Retorted the reporter.
“NO, How dare YOU speak to ME like that. Who’s the candy whiz here? Now, do shut up.” The chocolatier’s brightly colored lips could clearly be seen to sneer.
A thin layer of greenish black crude had bubbled up from the two sewer grates directly outside the factory gates. It was quickly spreading across the pavement and sliding down the main road toward the bulk of people; melting the snow and hissing at the footwear that it came in contact with. Camera and microphone cords began to melt as it ate through the protective plastic of their wires. Still, they were too busy staring to notice.
Wonka took a step backward, making absolutely certain that his fine boots would be nowhere near the slick.
“As I was about tah say before I was SO rudely interrupted was, Ladies and Gentlemen, Meine Damen und Herren, that I am afraid I’m gonna have tah bid you ‘adieu’. Parting is such sweet sorrow. But ya see, I have so little to do and so much time to do it in! Oh, er, strike that and reverse it.” A broad, white grin as his arms crisscrossed and pointed in opposing directions. The man began to walk away with his a giggle; one hand swirled up into the air. “Heh. I do that all the time! A few days ago I actually meant it though ‘cuz I wanted tah spend the entire day getting to know my heir.”
That comment suddenly reminded the audience of their true purpose for the day, causing several of them to shout, microphones shoved through the bars with vibrating anticipation, “WAIT! Where is Charlie Bucket?!”
The man plucked the cane from its resting spot and shrugged, “Why he’s at school of course!”
With a cruel smile that clutched his teeth together, Wonka said in a voice too low to be heard, “No thanks tah the likes of you.”
And precisely after those words, large bubbles began forming and equipment began shorting in frightening sparks, at last causing the uninvited audience to realize what an alarming situation they were in. They began to shriek and push each other roughly to get away. Not one was concerned for the welfare of the other. Some fell down and began screaming louder as their clothing sizzled.
It was quite a scene to behold and one man was being very nicely entertained by what had become his own personal show while comfortably within his own walls. Hazmat trucks for contamination and ambulances in case of emergency had arrived less than a minute later, but those who had touched the ground found little of their clothes were left. Mr. Wonka took great satisfaction in the exposed frilly garments worn under the brazen newswoman’s outfit. One dark brown eyebrow quirked up high as he wondered how long those would last.
“Goodness me! What on Earth is coming out of those sewers?!” Mrs. Bucket had come to stand beside him, also taking in the sights from the nearby vantage point.
“Acid.” The man replied in nearly an erotic tone, still staring out hypnotized.
“ACID! Won’t that kill them?!” She leaned closer with great concern on her face.
“They’ll be contaminated, but not killed.” He answered disinterested, “That fluid only eats non-organic substances.”
A suspicious glance caught from his peripheral hastened the chocolatier to add, “Uh, it’s happened before. Yeah, that utilities commission really needs tah get their act together. It’s probably all that public dumping that goes on by other companies. Terribly polluting. Er, after a day of being locked up and sterilized they’ll all be as right as rain!”
The two had their faces unusually close to each other in order to see out the extremely narrow window. Willy began examining the mother intently, ignoring the continued commotion outside. The layered dress she wore was predominantly a satiny chocolate split down the middle with a band of white and decorated in ruffles, bows, and lace. Perfectly sculpted, decorative strawberry buttons and earrings added to the effect of making her look like a fancy piece of cake with inviting décolletage from the corset design. Mrs. Bucket would normally never wear something so extravagant, but it had been a gift and was darling as well as nicely fitted. Wonka leaned closer and her heartbeat quickened as he suggestively stated, “You look absolutely ravishing today, by the way.”
She took note of a few giggling Oompa-loompas who were watching. Another audience turned into a show? Or was everybody simply a show to the candymaker? With a blush the woman said, “Willy, you have to stop doing this sort of thing.”
Wonka queried sharply, “Wut sort of thing? I can’t look at ya or pay you a compliment? Huh. Seems like the polite thing tah do would be to say thank you.”
Being both a modest and mannered person, the woman did feel shamed. Her gaze lowered and her body language turned submissive. As the trucks drove off with the contaminated victims and fresh news crews sprouted to report on the 'inexplicable' leak within the city’s sewers, Willy motioned for the jabbering radio behind him to be turned off. “Doesn’t matter. We both got work tah do anyhow. You’ve got Loompaland tikes to watch over and I’m gonna fix Mr. Bucket today.”
“You are?” She gasped in delight.
“Yeah.” He said casually with an accusatory look.
Those violet eyes could grow as cold as the snow outside, especially next to skin that remained a permanent shade of winter. Without prompting, he reached up and Mrs. Bucket resisted every urge to pull away as the hand drew toward her face. It wasn’t that she wanted to discourage him from getting used to touch or offend him further; he simply needed to learn to be more appropriate about how it was done. That and she feared that she longed too much to be embraced in that heady scent again, to warm the parts of him that had become frozen.
A gloved hand brushed the very edge of her curly hair. The voice simply said, “It’s yer hair, it musta’ grown. I like it longer.”
He drew closer still and the woman scrunched up and her eyes squeezed closed, she did not step back or run. Her nostrils soon detected the scent of sugar as sweet as an entire bakery of French pastries; the subtle warmth of his breath now unmistakably against the side of her face. All she could think was, “He WOULDN’T!”
But he did. There was an unmistakable soft brush against her cheek:
Flit!
Flick!
Followed by his all too familiar high-pitched giggle. Mr. Wonka had kissed her, but in the method of the “butterfly” with eyelashes instead of lips. Cheeky devil. And cheeky Charlie for teaching it to him.
The sudden clicking of his heels walking away caused her to relax and reveal her doe-like eyes again. There was no sign of a limp as the man speedily disappeared down one of the numerous winding hallways. She’d hoped to say something to him about her child’s obvious growing affection for him, but the moment was completely lost due to his usual exasperatingly illogical behavior. The thought of her husband being brought back into the fold was enough to brighten her spirits though. He couldn’t continue this flirtatious behavior if Mr. Bucket was around, things would fall back into their normal patterns.
With a hopeful thought and a wistful smile toward the ever-observing natives, she left in the opposite direction toward the hidden location of The Children’s Room, internally debating whether Willy Wonka was in fact a very nice or a very nasty man. She tried with great intention to see the first, but there was something about the second possibility that wasn’t as distasteful as it perhaps should have been. After all, wasn’t it that part which so ardently wanted to protect her son? A tremble, no, it was more of a shudder ran through her, as if some sleeping part of her had awakened a little.
“Someone has to fight the monsters, don’t they?”

She’d said that to him from nowhere. Mr. Bucket had never had such a ferocious nature about him, although lately something had seemed to be growing. Seething. Perhaps they were all changing? Perhaps there really was something mystical about the factory and it was slowly seeping in? The unaccompanied woman twirled a strand of the previously admired locks while continuing on her path, drowned in her thoughts.

Meanwhile, The Puppet Hospital and Burn Center had been entirely shut off and draped in heavy black tarps. There would be NO visitors today. Bright, blinding lights shown down from far above upon the oxygen capsule; tiny, identical men in padded white body suits bearing red clinic crosses prepared everything. Wonka dramatically barged upon the scene, throwing aside a section of the plastic curtains like a great cape.
Head tilted downward, deeps shadows caused by the tall top hat eliminated all features, but clearly the man was not amused. Humanity was tap-dancing on his very last nerve today. How very convenient to have a giant target to focus the thunderstorm of his emotions into. Despite turning the tables on the crowd, this day was not what the candymaker planned and as any of the workers could tell you, The Rescuer did not like it when things didn’t go according to HIS carefully laid plans. Heavy breaths accompanied a heaving chest. He surveyed the scene to make sure things were in order. Then snarled, “Let’s do this.”
The Oompa-loompa voices started low like a deep drum beat:
Omm-Om-paa…Ooga!
Loooom-loom-paa…Booga!
Omm-Om-paa… Ooga!
Loooom-loom-pa… Booga!
In elegant unison, silver trays were placed upon rolling medical carts; the severity and sharpness of the instruments appearing hardly different from those used on the lifeless, robotic puppets. Two men stepped up in rhythm upon undersized ladders. Similar to a pit crew adjusting a racecar, the ladders swung to either side of the candymaker.
Omm-Om-paa…Ooga!
Loooom-loom-paa…Booga!
Omm-Om-paa… Ooga!
Loooom-loom-pa… Booga!
Standing still, arms outstretched, Willy stood very much like the scarecrow comparison made by Grandpa George. Immediately, his velvet jacket was slipped off, a long medical smock was added, identical in shape to his father’s. The color, in contrast to the petit nurses, was red and bore a white cross on front. The ladders were wheeled to the sides where thick black bucket gloves were added over the skin-tight latex ones. With great speed they buttoned up the double-breasted garment, snapped a medical mask on over his lower face, and removed the top hat to place a welder’s shield over the wildly twinkling eyes.
Mechanical man, Omm-Om-paa…
Mechanical mind, Loooom-loom-pa…
We’ve formed a revolutionary plan,
For an improved mechanical man,
Give me armor, give me steel,
A way to seal an ill-fated deal,
Perfect workers are hard to find,
If only one could so easily improve the mind!
With powerful steps the candymaker walked toward the drugged, unconscious Mr. Bucket inside the capsule-shaped oxygen chamber. He swayed slightly to the rap lyrics and melody being struck out all around the contained area. With wit as honed as the tools, he spoke an all too familiar phrase from his life in the exact cadence of the domineering dentist who usually spoke it, “Now, let’s see what the damage is shall we?”
The maestro of this bizarre symphony surveyed the body then the vast selection of instruments and jigsaw supplies; nuts, bolts, wires, blades, circuits, tubes, and assorted appliances. Blindly one arm thrust out -- a diligent assistant placed a roll of papers within his grasp -- as he was certain would be done. He unfurled the blueprints in front of his face, a speedy inspection before handing them back and opening the isolated cell of the deformed, charred right arm. The next lines spoken were said bitterly, eyes squinting, “Didn’t want him tah take the Great Glass Elevator, did ya? FORCED him to promise, didn’t ya? And little Charlie doesn’t break his promises. No…no, he does not.”
Mechanical man, Omm-Om-paa…
Mechanical mind, Loooom-loom-pa…
Tick-tock! Tock-tick!
The wattage wildly begins to flick,
Zappity-zip! Zippity-zap!
So much potential left to tap,
Working all around the clock,
Who has time to think or block,
Plans of astronomical proportions,
With life’s dramatic distortions?!
Dramatic Distortions!
These are the ties, Omm-Om-paa…
The ties that bind, Loooom-loom-pa…
You saved a life, ‘tis true, ‘tis true,
And for that we’re in debt to you,
But rotten parts we just can’t keep,
Don’t worry you’ll feel nothing while asleep,
Working to fix every flaw or mistake,
Before sleepy eyes do wake.
Before sleepy eyes do wake…
An object that seemed horribly out of place was lifted off the last medical cart with demented eyes aimed toward an unmoving body that he practically wished was a corpse. But he couldn’t, Mr. Bucket had saved an Oompa-loompa, the cherished guardians of his livelihood and life’s work. They knew every secret and kept them. For that and to spare Charlie a broken heart, he’d found this second solution. A rough pull followed another and the oblong object created a thunderous roar!
Tiny rows of deadly sharp teeth began revolving and revolving in a blur of blaring decibels:
BBBbbbrRRrrraaaaAAAAAAMAMMMMMMM!!!!
Ooga! Booga! Ooga! Booga!
Ooga! Booga! Ooga! Booga!
Small onyx eyes stared on unflinching as the sparks began to fly, as flesh began to be cut. It didn’t take much. It wasn’t very long. Muscle strained to cut muscle as Wonka leaned into the work, harder pressure on the bone was required, and then…the awful chore was done. The next task ready to begin as the bloodstained chainsaw and useless appendage was wheeled away. A dozen sets of tiny hands with exacting fingers set to assist the pair of large ones at the gaping wound. Small tools equipped with laser beams, drills, and microscopic eyes were put into action. This would be a tedious and grueling procedure, it was fortuitous that his heir was nowhere in the factory, no need to worry about him walking in and seeing something that could scar the child for life as well.
Author’s Notes:
EDIT: 12/25/07 I'm re-coding this volume for FanFiction.Net and GOD DAMNIT there are too many typos! I am so sorry. I used to be very shy about re-reading my work and as fan fiction and writing were brand new to me, I was learning as I went, in front of people. I should also mention that I've spent a lifetime fighting dyslexic tendencies. I have improved more greatly than you'd know but spelling continues to be a difficult for me.
My special thanks to all the readers and creators out there. I never could have come this far without you.
"It always feels like, somebody's watching me" was taken from the song "Somebody's Watching Me" by Rockwell (featuring Michael Jackson on backup)
Because it’s too awesome NOT to draw attention to it, special thanks to LiveJournal user "glamourcorpse" for drawing this with her rendition of Charlie’s outfit from earlier chapters: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/34780022/
You may be thinking Charlie-sheep? WTF? But oh no, you would be wrong, check out the oddly cute art that inspired it by the ever lovin’ Live Journal user, "loi_maga". I love the occasionally warped way this young woman’s mind works: http://community.livejournal.com/wonkaslash/90534.html & http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/24576852/ & http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/21565421/ (part of the Little Red Riding Hood inspiration) But you can feel free to imagine them looking however you want in those lascivious scenes.
‘Nocturnal emissions’ is the technical name for what Charlie experienced, otherwise known as ‘wet dreams’. It is when boys ejaculate from erotic imagery without even needing to masturbate. Kind of cool, but also a little messy and therefore embarrassing. Nearly every developing male in the world has them.
Droolers were what William Shakespeare called the people in the front row seat of his theater audience. Though, he wrote his plays, in part, to deliberately appeal to them.
Willy Wonka doing a somersault comes from the first movie and was entirely Gene Wilder’s idea! I’ve always loved that move. When the director asked him why in the world he wanted to do it, the actor stated, “Because from then on the viewer is never sure if they can fully trust him or not.” He was absolutely correct, that was exactly the sensation it left me with!
“Up the airy mountain, down the rushing glen, we dare not go a-hunting, for fear of little men.” was spoken by “The Tinker” in the first movie. Originally an excerpt from The Fairies William Allingham (1824-1889).
Mr. Wonka’s outfit was inspired from staring at David Bowie in this outfit for too long:
http://www.illustrated-db-discography.nl/12inch/pix/Tonight.jpg
The Celts believed in “knot magic”, interesting subject. I’m sure Willy knows something of it. For example, I present a Traditional Nine Knot Spell:
By knot of one - the spell's begun,
By knot of two - I make it true,
By knot of three - so mote it be,
By knot of four - the open door,
By knot of five - the spell's alive,
By the spell of six - the spell is fixed,
By the spell of seven - the earth and heaven,
By the spell of eight - the stroke of fate,
By the spell of nine - the (insert object of desire) is mine.
You may still hear people say, “Know him…as in the biblical sense?” which refers to the fact that the bible used the word 'know' to imply sexual knowledge, the word lay was used the same way and today we use the term "laid" to imply sex. Interesting.
British slang is the bee’s knees! I ain’t Dahl but I try to throw it in now and then. “faffing” is to fool around, “gobsmacked” means to astound.
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