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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
- 16
- 17
- 18
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 XX - Volume Twenty: Trouble at the Factory a Plenty
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: Mature Demented Audiences (R)
Warnings: Dark & Mature Themes, Violence, Angst, Kidnapping, Alternate Paganism, Slash, and an under-aged/adult slash (“shota” or “chan”) relationship.
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 AND Christopher “Daddy” Lee.
Summary: For far too long a silent war has been brewing. Ficklegruber, Prodnose, and Slugworth have resentfully lashed out against Willy Wonka in every way they could manage. Kidnapping little Charlie Bucket may be the lowest they’ve ever sunk but will it be enough to finally bring down their hated competitor? Surprises lie in store for everyone as old tensions and lusts come to light. In the past it was several against one, but the odds are different with the Bucket family involved, though perhaps not exactly as you remembered them…

“All the other chocolate makers, you see, had grown jealous of Mr. Wonka”

“RIiiiSE.”
The voice was drawn out and unusually deep for the speaker. A psychotically willful expression worn upon the tilted back head of the candymaker, one arm forcefully extended as the soiled black bucket glove was slid off only to expose another; a pair made in a custom shade and to perfectly fit only one man. Layers upon layers, exactly like the person contained within.
People the size of elves from storybook fairytales flitted around the large standing form, removing the rest of his outer garb. A crimson doctor’s smock was slipped off, white cross at the chest barely visible any longer from bloody stains matching the rest of the fabric. Multi-colored metallic threads shimmered on the exposed rainbow pinstriped vest with matching pants. The man’s dramatically upright starched collar and flared French-cuffed sleeves remained as pristinely white as they had been that morning. With a quick polish of his W moniker, it too shone, but nowhere near as brightly as another silver object encased within The Puppet Clinic and Burn Unit. Perfection was always achieved, at any cost.
Slowly, but surely, in response to the commanding arm and voice, the figure cradled inside the smooth, pill-shaped capsule began to rise. Once fully seated upright, the drowsy, dark colored eyes focused on the chocolatier gliding over. He looked into his patient’s bleary face and released a mirthful giggle, one rather out of place within the previous dramatics. Splaying out his fingers while saying with great enthusiasm, “I’ve wanted tah do that for decades!”
Mr. Bucket had no idea what this person was talking about. But that irritating trill of a laugh reminded the engineer what he was dealing with:
Wonka
It sounded like the punch line to a joke. Though his brain seemed to want to relate the sound to a weapon or a creature, the name of a thing, but not a person. Thoughts were coming to him as if through a thick fog, but some part of him was astounded to even be alive within this joke/weapon/person’s vicinity. And then he realized, more than alive…he was AWAKE - breathing on his own and free! Securing one arm to either side of the incubator bed’s rim, he pushed upward to hoist himself out of the object that had become his prison. A deep, gnawing pain coming from his right shoulder, quickly halted all efforts.
Adding to the effect of looking like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster Mr. Bucket emitted a low moaning sound, “Ugggh…”
“Yeeah.. those goshdarn artificial limbs tend tah ache at the joints. You’ll adjust to it eventually, but it’ll always kind of bug ya. Sorry ‘bout that, I haven’t found a way around it yet.” Said Willy with passing concern. A tugging at the chocolatier’s pant material followed that comment. This caused his face to become truly kind, like a parent toward a beloved child, as he looked down at the tiny person doing the tugging. His Oompa-Loompa was acknowledged with an airy, “Hm?”
Wonka’s expression shifted again as the sight of a fanciful telephone sitting on a velvet pillow was hoisted upward; it looked like the kind of exasperation one might expect from a disgruntled teenager. The phone, like the person in charge, was wearing only a veneer of Victorian antiquity. Touchtone buttons where rotary ones should be along with a lack of wires gave away far more complex circuitry inside. Both of the objects appeared humongous being held by such a petite being. The entire scene wasn’t doing anything to help Mr. Bucket’s already flummoxed state of existence.
Looking down at his faithful worker Mr. Wonka inquired, “Is it him again?”
The dark-skinned man, hair as slicked back as his boss’s currently was, nodded affirmatively.
There was a tisk and then a sigh as the grand chocolatier lifted the receiver an inch. As soon as he did so, a cavernously masculine voice could be heard yelling. Wonka rolled his eyes, proceeding promptly to put the receiver right back down, so as to hang up on the caller without ever having spoken to them. He looked back at Mr. Bucket, “That’s like, the third time he’s called today! I mean, come on! Doesn’t he realize how BUSY I am?! I got more than cavities to drill here!”
A shoo-shoo motion was gestured toward the Oompa-Loompa with the phone. The little man quickly trotted away with nary an expression or comment on the situation. Another Oompa-Loompa had approached from behind the chocolatier on a tall, narrow little ladder that led to the top of Mr. Wonka’s head. This assisting munchkin carefully placed down a navy colored top hat. A stripe of satiny cobalt appeared in the fibers under the brightness of the lamplights.
Mr. Bucket couldn’t help but be mesmerized. He murmured, “Your hair…it’s different, isn’t it?”
“Oh, don’t worry I didn’t cut it or nothing, just had it slicked back this morning by my barber. Know why? Know why?!” That giddiness inappropriate for his age had returned. When an answer was not forth coming from the beleaguered engineer, he added with a sly self-satisfied sort of smirk and an eyebrow wiggle, “Because yer son told me he thought I looked rather good this way when he was playin’ with it. What do you think? Am I more debonair this way?”
The father’s focus slid back and forth then back to Wonka, “Son? I…I have a child?”
Clown-like sympathy appeared, “Aw, yer really not quite yerself, huh? Probably shock. We had to fiddle in yer brain a smidgen to get the circuits all connected, just a teensy, weensy incision under the scalp. But yes, Mr. Bucket, you have THE most wonderful little boy in the whole wide world. I know this because I like him, a great deal actually, more than I ever liked anybody, and I don’t really like anyone anymore, so he HAS to be special.”
“Chaarrlie?” There was a distant far away look as Mr. Bucket spoke the word. It too seemed alien, but in the exact opposite way that the word ‘Wonka’ had been; in a soft, cloud-like, wishful way… Then, something clicked - hard. Deep umber eyes met shimmering amethyst ones as the red lips beneath them parted into a perfect smile at the mere sound of his heir’s name.
“Yes Mr. Bucket, Char--*urk!” His sentence was cut short by two hands suddenly constricting around his throat.
The father’s glare could have burned holes through the chocolatier as he stepped out of the capsule gripping his neck, “Keep your sick sticky hands off of MY son.”
Mr. Bucket’s stark white jumpsuit matched the dozens of knee-high nurses in the room. And every one of those nurses was currently at full attention toward the scene before them, button-sized eyes subtly glancing at the trays of sharp medical instruments still easily within reach.
“Glckt!” Was the only response Mr. Wonka could make, his fingers arched in pain, but communicative eyes silently transmitted a message to his workers for they stood watch, but held back any physical reaction. He gasped, struggling to speak a reminder of the father’s own words; said not so very long, and yet what seemed like eons, from events transpired since. “Nnn. Hasss the boy *choke* SAID I’ve done anything he didn’t like? Has HE *glerk*?!”
A stare down took place as the engineer checked his extremely uncertain brainwaves. “…noo…he…he loves you..?”
Mr. Wonka whimpered an affirmative sort of noise, expression begging pity and implying damage being done to something so favored by the beloved child.
The wounded bird act took the desired effect as Mr. Bucket carefully withdrew his strangulation hold. It was then that the father noticed his own hands; specifically the right one and the entire arm that it was connected to as it gleamed back at him. Yes, gleamed like an engine inside of a brand new hotrod. Mr. Bucket looked back up at Mr. Wonka who had been sure to back up several feet. The chocolatier was rubbing his abused fair strip of skin as the Englishman spoke, “Wot have…you done to me?”
*cough* “Didn’tcha hear me a second ago?” He croaked, clearing his throat some more. A threatening expression flickering for mere seconds, only long enough to suggest that though greatly aggravated, no true peril or fear had been present. Mr. Bucket had once again been very lucky that Willy Wonka was not inclined to cease his life due to the very person he’d been strangled over. Still, he thought, that’s one heckova’ grip the guy’s got now…
“It’s an ARTIFICIAL LIMB, but not just any, THE finest that I, or anyone for that matter, has ever built. Try tah wiggle yer fingers.” His eyes bugged slightly as he nodded in encouragement. As soon as Mr. Bucket became distracted, one of Wonka’s own arms reached behind his back. A cane was placed into that hand by one which dwarfed in comparison; a solid black one with a fanciful bone handle rather than the usual candy-filled design. Preventative measures needed to be taken in case his patience didn’t hold out.
Still in disbelief that this chrome thing was now a permanent piece of his body, the man gave a thought to wiggle his fingers and the sleek silver replicas did obey. All the previously, astoundingly normal man, could think was that none of this was possible. Maybe he was having another one of those disturbing dreams and would wake up any minute now. He moved the fingers again. They clacked like the keys on a saxophone as he moved them from biggest to smallest then back again. It was entrancing in a disturbing sort of way.
The polish kept gleaming in the light; too beautiful to be awful, too awful to be beautiful.
Willy had dared to get close again, stroking the flawless metal surface as he smiled from ear to ear. His expression looked like a combination of derangement and sexual arousal. An expression that distracted Mr. Bucket enough to keep from jerking away as he pondered this new ‘awful beauty’ that seemed to surround him lately.
The chocolatier stated, “There are gears and tools inside, all different kinds, but that’ll probably take ya longer to figure out. Still, when you do, you’ll be the BEST dang engineer there ever was! I mean, who could compete with a man who is part machinery himself?”
A sharp, high-pitched laugh punctuated the next sentence as Mr. Wonka complimented himself and made another inside pun. “Isn’t it positively brilliant?! Go! Go! Gadget Bucket!”
Mr. Bucket’s response caught him off guard in the midst of all his cheer. The father sadly said in response, “Charlie will think me a monster.”
“A monster?!” Anger, disbelief, and insult combined as Mr. Wonka’s expressions and voice morphed again, “What’s so MONSTROUS about havin’ an artificial limb?! Lots of people have ‘em and yours is… A. Work. Of. ART. Would you have preferred that I’d left ya horribly disfigured?! Would that’ve been better? Huh?!”
He pointed his plastic coated index finger right under the uncertain man’s nose, “Ya know, if you’da worn the fiddling jumpsuit, insteada those overalls, in the first goshdarn place then we wouldn’t even be in this mess! But NOOoooo, you had tah be special, you couldn’t BEAR to be thought of as a mere Oompa-Loompa. As IF. You should be looking up to them, I tell ya what!”
Having paced away during his lecture, the chocolatier stood at a distance again, both hands resting on his hips as he huffed and waited for a reaction from the physically altered head of engineering.
The father looked at the strange man, whose gloves matched his eyes for no explicable reason that he could fathom, and found he wasn’t angry at his words. Wonka made good points even if they sounded like they came from a snarky adolescent. Rubbing his shoulder, his response was. “You’re right. Thank you…it still hurts though.”
Some of the chocolatier’s snideness melted away, “Yer welcome. And pain reminds us that we’re not dead, Mr. Bucket. Eventually you’ll get used to it, even come to depend on it…like an old friend.”
Strange words from the strange man; he was always hinting, teasing, suggesting -- but never quite saying, a riddler worse than the Sphinx. Then there were those inscrutable expressions beaded amongst the ever-revolving bevy of cartoon ones...like the one he was currently wearing. More memories were coming back to him about this person; downloading like files into a computer.
Mr. Wonka did not care for the inspecting silence and pursed his lips, “Have we come to an understanding then? No more chokey-chokey the nice candymaker who gave ya the brand new shiny, super arm. ‘Kay?”
Candymaker? That word in particular, among the string of jibber-jabber, sunk into his mind. It did not seem to even begin to describe this individual. No, he was far more than a ‘candymaker’. Mr. Bucket shifted the arm a few times, examining the smoothness of the gears, the way one piece fit into the other with the barest of seams. He thought of Charlie and the cover of the book he’d been reading; if Leonardo Da Vinci envisioned the human body in metal it might have looked identical. “Willy?”
“Swell, ya remember MY name too. Yeah?” A set of Oompa-Loompas was replacing his velvet frock, the garment shifted through the spectrum like a color wheel sunset. The small men’s eyes were still darting to the Bucket father with suspicion. However, their placid features were careful not to reveal a sign of malice.
The father’s voice was mild and polite, “Willy…wot are you?”
An oblong mirror was being held up by yet more faithful Oompa-Loompas; he seemed to have an endless supply of workers waiting on his every thought and whim. Wonka paused mid-preening in front it. Charlie had tried a question like this too, but it turned out to mean something other than what he feared the child meant. More clarification was needed.
He attempted a casual chuckle to cover his nerves, “Pardon?”
Whatever seemed to be different with his mind, whether it was medication wearing off, or the trauma of loosing a limb, or something more, had relaxed the Englishman enough to dare to ask a niggling question. Otherwise he might never have had the courage to say what was his worst fear, no matter how ridiculous it sounded out loud. Pensively he added, “Well, er..wot are me and my family dealing with? That is…are you..human?”
That question caused the movement of everything in the room to cease.
Wonka fluttered his eyelashes a little, mouth parted but not yet speaking. Stepping closer elegantly, each footfall clicking along with cane on the sterile plated floor, he squinted, “Ya really wanna know?”
“Yes. Please. No more riddles.”
He stood directly in front of the Bucket father now, his face an annoyed sort of amused as it twisted in a mocking fashion, mulling over the question a little more, head bobbing to and fro while he rolled the black cane within his two hands. Eye contact was re-established as he shrugged, “I dunno.”
They stared at each other for a second.
“No really…I don’t. Not even when I look into the mirror. That is…unless lonely and terribly misunderstood count.” The thick eyebrows had turned upward in contemplation as they stared into their own reflection. Indeed the image the man gazed on seemed foreign to him in some way. With urgency he adjusted his smile, quickly posing and putting the mask of “Willy Wonka the Amazing Chocolatier” back into place.
Another pause followed. Mr. Bucket was struck in a new way by the quality of his foe’s voice; the way it usually sounded like a child trying to force itself through an adult’s body. What if it all wasn’t an act? What if he didn’t realize his voice should be lower, didn’t realize its full capacity? Couldn’t that one eccentricity extend as a metaphor to his entire being? There was actually a great sadness to his persona then. And there it was. He nearly saw a child inside the formal attire and implied old man, a boy perhaps as young as Charlie but as his son had said…without a soul in the world to comfort him. The only thing that had given him happiness apparently had been candy. No wonder he was completely obsessed with it. No wonder he was becoming equally obsessed with Charlie - the only person bringing him true happiness. Unexpectedly, it all made sense.
The chocolatier waved the looking glass away. Gracefully he spun to turn his back toward the engineer. With a glance over one shoulder, a tinge of accusation was in his tone as he stated, “Do you ah, do you know what YOU are, Mr. Bucket?”
Without hesitation he calmly answered, “I’m Charlie’s father and my wife’s devoted partner.”
It was such spontaneous, sweet honesty. He froze again. Back still turned, hiding a horrible lost look in the shadows, Mr. Wonka haltingly replied, “Oh. …those are..erm, nice things tah be.”
The Oompa-Loompa with the telephone had trotted back into the room and over to his boss. For the timing of the disturbance, Wonka tisked at the object, twice as loudly this time. “Galloping goldfish! Doesn’t Daddy have anything better tah do than bother ME all day long?!”
However, a negative shaking of the tiny head and peculiar hiccups of native language caused Wonka to lift the receiver immediately, “Hello?”
A broad toothy grin was flashed at Mr. Bucket as he said proudly, “Grandpa Joe! How nice tah hear your….”
A few seconds after the chocolatier’s voice had trailed off, a loud clacking sound vibrated from the mouthpiece hitting the floor. Wonka was standing completely catatonic this time. Mr. Bucket rushed and picked the receiver up, holding it to his own ear, “Joe? Willy’s gone all funny. Wot’s going on?”
He could hardly believe what was being said into his ear either and repeated it aloud, as if to give the words real meaning, “Charlie’s been kidnapped by the other candymakers?”
Hearing it a second time caused the chocolatier’s eyes to roll back into his skull at the same time that his entire form began to collapse. It was Willy’s turn to receive an unbearable shock to his extremely delicate system.
On instinct, as he had gone after the wayward Oompa-Loompa falling to his death, Mr. Bucket went to catch Wonka, his metal hand extended from its wrist automatically and wrapped securely around the back of the velvet dust jacket. The engineer quickly brought the rest of his body to meet up with his arm as it effortlessly shifted back into its sockets. It was positively astounding, but he’d have to figure out how the whole thing worked later, for currently he was in a very awkward position. Wonka’s limp head was lying against his shoulder and from the angle they were both at, the chocolatier’s bright lips had brushed up against the father’s colorless ones.
Having heard the news themselves, the Oompa-Loompas had been gesturing and huddling in a panic; too preoccupied to focus on the exact proximity of the two men.
Mr. Bucket had not wanted to drop or upset Willy. At least that was what he was telling himself was the reason for not pulling away, but it also could have been from that swell of pity he’d felt earlier, or left over curiosities from those haunting dreams; most as violent as they had been sexual -- things he’d never thought about in his entire life. He found the man’s touch snake-like; it seemed too cool and smooth to belong to a living being. Wasn’t there a story about a man, a woman, and a serpent in a glorious garden from long, long ago? He couldn’t quite remember. But he could recall that he and this living cipher had been angry at each other for a while. However, after the blow-up of this recent exchange he believed they were both left with a deeper understanding, a sort of sympathy, for one another. Certainly they both deeply cared for Charlie.
The engineer pulled away from the impromptu kiss and picked up the rest of the candymaker’s body, a task he easily accomplished with the strength of his new limb despite the ache. Wonka’s words on pain would stay with him. However, it was surprising how little his lithe formed weighed. For all the man’s incredible power, he currently looked like an exhausted tot ready for bed. Some part of him at least was human after all.
A pair of the tiny workers followed immediately behind as he headed for the exit. One was clutching the famous top hat, another his equally important exotic walking stick.
The Bucket father eyed them, “I know you can speak English.”
They nervously looked at each other, then to the rest of their clan behind who fidgeted in an equally tense manner.
“Just…help me get to Grandpa Joe.”
The pair looked somewhat ashamed as one boosted the other to push the clear button, successfully summoning the infamous Great Glass Elevator. As the button lit up Mr. Bucket looked down at the dandy chocolatier in his arms and shame appeared on his face as well.

Psssst …hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst…
Psssst! …hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….
Psssst! …hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….
An unpleasant hissing noise had been punctuating the silence for some time now. It sounded in a rhythmic pattern from a small breathing apparatus. A plastic pressure valve pumped air through tubes that traced around and into a clear mask upon the face of an unscrupulous individual named Slugworth. The old candymaker was extremely decrepit looking: face drawn, rotted teeth mostly gone, skin a sickly greenish-grey, body slumped in a high-tech wheelchair, but he was keen - his brain worked fine. The form looked more grotesque highlighted by the flickering light of a lone kerosene lamp.
All three competitors were standing around the dank, dim basement of Slugworth’s Candy Shop plotting & whispering. The child had been keeping quiet, trying to make out every sound or word that he could. Not that he had much of a choice with a gag tied over his mouth. However, even with enhanced senses, it was hard to hear them over the ventilator. And Charlie certainly couldn’t move closer to the conspirators for he was tied tightly to a series of lead pipes. And those pipes were near the floor, keeping his bare knees pressed to the chilly cement. Struggling had gotten him slaps as stinging as the ball of Mr. Wonka’s cane, from the large man left in charge of guarding.
So instead of risking further punishment, the boy had been busying himself inspecting the environment; he usually did that anyhow - kept quiet and observed. One could learn a lot that way. Firstly, the entire area looked as if it could benefit from a good cleaning; burned out fluorescent bulbs, stained walls, empty burlap sacks, dusty powder remnants, and bubblegum wrappers littering the floor. That’s how Charlie knew where he was. Because chewing gum that expanded to enormous sizes without ever popping or ever losing its flavor was the recipe that Slugworth had stolen. Maybe that was why Mr. Wonka hated people who chewed the substance all the time. As he pondered that, a rat’s eyes gleamed at him from under the slovenly worktable. Mangy, thin, and oily: the rodent peeked its head out long enough to sniff and stealthily steal a remaining bit of candy before quickly defecating then dashing off again.
How applicable.
“It’s freezing down here, Sluggo. Can’t we get some heat going?” Complained Ficklegruber, while rubbing the tops of his arms. The elastic sleeve guards slipped out of place causing the fabric to droop. Charlie had definitely noticed certain passing similarities between all three men and his mentor. Curious.
“Forget it. Waste of…money. These are..hard times..” Said Slugworth in between the forced pumps of oxygen. His eyes drifted towards the third candyman, “The…note…read it.”
Prodnose had been desperately trying to focus through a small pair of bifocal glasses resting at the edge of his nose, but Ficklegruber impatiently snatched the note away. The young man lifted it up to his own face, “Well for starters, it smells like peanut butter and jelly and the paper is shaped like slices of bread. Willy is still ‘nutty’ alright.”
“Too bad it doesn’t smell like him instead.” Mused Prodnose.
Ficklegruber lifted his upper lip in disgust at him before reading the curlicue printed message:
To My Dearest Charlie ~
Since I’m deprived of being with you in stylish form,
I’ll offer thoughts contained within this modest poem,
You’re well onto becoming a grand chocolatier,
Perhaps grander than me one day for never had I a peer,
To serve so early in my youth as disciple or guide,
But more than those rudimentary tasks keeps me by your side.
I’m grateful to be far better at prose than at speech,
Sitting here and remembering my initial desire to teach,
The sum of my knowledge on everything I know,
To have someone of merit my sugar empire to bestow,
But as these dizzying days have so quickly passed,
I realize it is I who stands with more fortunes amassed.
Ya see, you aren’t the only student within this factory,
Since truly the person learning most of all is me,
Chocolate and candy can hardly repay my delightful debt,
But I’ll spend the rest of my time figuring more tricks yet,
Stick by my side forever and we shall most certainly discover,
Endless new things of which to be mutual lovers.
Give yourself equal credit in these brand new creations,
Soon we’ll share them through televisions across the nations,
On the subject of things that I’m willing to share,
It’s time to reveal the secret for Wonka products to my heir!
The last part requires the gentle warmth that I get from you,
It’s printed in a special sort of ink that sneaks can’t view.
Charlie started muffling and struggling for all he was worth. He didn’t care if he did get struck again. That special letter from his jacket pocket had been meant for HIS eyes and HIS eyes alone. These awful, greedy men were never entitled to Mr. Wonka’s sincere thoughts, let alone the potential secret for every one of his candies!!
“MrrrPF!! SsrHhFft! Raow Arhef!”
“M! Shut…Wonka’s brat up! I’ve waited…*wheeze* my whole life to hear this!”
Psssst! …hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….
Two bulky laced boots attached to tight leather pants stepped toward the child. A face lowered down; a strong one with a jagged scar on its upper lip. Tattooed arms flexed under nothing more than a denim jacket with sleeves torn off. Charlie recognized a pentagram on one bicep among the entanglement of inked designs, but the star inside the circle was upside down. With a complete lack of hair, anyone’s focus would easily slide down the equally bald and heavy brow bridge. Deathly cold eyes embedded within sunken sockets were devoid of anything kind – it was not a look the boy was entirely unfamiliar with, he knew what such eyes were capable of. They looked up and down Charlie’s small body, pausing at the torn slit in the ruined rainbow sweater where a delicate nipple was exposed. A warning was given in a low, deliberate voice, “One more peep and I’ll find something else to put in your mouth that’ll keep you really quiet.”
Charlie cringed into himself, obeying “M’s” provocative threat. The large man continued to look at the boy as a strange, pleased smile revealing a row of gold-capped dental work. He whispered, “Knew just what I meant, didn’t you poppet? Mmm.”
Ficklegruber Jr. displayed the note, a sheet in each hand, there was a second page, but it was blank. He stated with annoyance, “There ain’t nothing else written here. You got ripped off kid, he ain’t never gonna tell you nothing.”
“Old trick.” Wheezed Ficklegruber. “Hold it up…to the lamplight. Let the fire…heat it.”
Seconds after it was held to the hot top of the lantern, brownish cursive script became visible on the previously blank page.
“Maaagic.” Prodnose gaped in wonderment.
“No, letters painted in …lemon juice.” Corrected Ficklegruber. “Read.”
Okay, this part is too important to put into rhyme. The big secret to making candy, as you might have guessed, is magick! And the big secret to magick is believing. You got that? No matter what other garbage people tell you, no matter how many times they say, “Oh, it can’t be done”, YOU always have to believe that it can!
That’s why I told you and your family that Grandma Georgina was the smartest. See, being smart isn’t the same as being intelligent. My father for example is really intelligent, but he wasn’t too smart when it came to some things, ya know? The HEART knows what the brain doesn’t and if you believe it in your heart to be true, then it is. Next comes knowledge, talent, and of course rhythm to mix them all together in the right parts. That’s most important, but you’ve got the first step already ‘licked’ in my opinion. If you were sittin’ here (where you should be) you’d have heard me laughing after I penned that. Do well in school, but hurry home. I’ll be missing you.
Your Candyman Always,
Willy Wonka
“It didn’t say anything helpful anyway. He just spouted off typical Weirdo Willy nonsense. Pfft! Dolt didn’t even spell magic right; he stuck a ‘k’ at the end of it both times. What is this, another one of his stupid pranks?” As soon as those words came out of his mouth, the letter caught fire from being held too close to the kerosene flame. Ficklegruber shrieked as it blew up into a bright array of light that took on the haunting shape of a skull in a top hat. Next, sparkling bursts of glitter came, lighting up the entire room. Then as if none of it had ever been, it simply faded away.
The young candymaker stood horrified and very badly singed.
Psssst! ….hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….
“Lemon Juice?” Queried Prodnose, breaking the surprised silence.
“No…THAT, was magick.” Stated M with weight in his tone. He and Slugworth exchanged a look of mutual understanding.
Slugworth was in deep thought. “Wonka…doesn’t joke, Ficklegruber. He meant…every word…he wrote. And…lucky for my…assistant here, the whole thing seemed…romantic.”
Charlie wanted to laugh, and scream, and cry. His young heart felt swelled with love despite how awful everything was because of the sincerity in the man’s words. But not a tear did he shed, nor a smile did he allow, holding onto his resolve lest he never find it again. He believed in Mr. Wonka and understood exactly what was meant in the note about magick. Along with a deeper understanding of, “You’re my heart now.” He also believed permission had been given to refer to the candymaker as more than mentor. If only he’d get a chance to say it, he thought as his heart beat faster still. Would he ever see his…‘lover’ again?
Psssst! ….hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….
Prodnose stumbled over to Charlie, clumsily getting down onto his hands and knees in order to be at the boy’s level. The old, stocky man was jubilantly anxious, “I-is that true? Are you romantic with each other?! H-has he kissed you? He tastes absolutely incredible! Like ambrosia and ripe peaches and sangria wine! Am I right?! Am I right?!”
The boy’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets! How on Earth did Prodnose know that?!
The candymaker anxiously nodded his head, causing his jowls to jiggle. It was the sort of humble face one would describe as a ‘mug’ not unpleasant, but thick in its features. He looked back at the other men, “See! See! I told you lads! And you’ve been calling me bonkers all these years!”
“Fine, fine. You’re both disgusting. Locking lips with Wonka. Ew. Blech.” Said Ficklegruber Junior while shuddering. He was bandaging his burnt hands in gauze from a well-stocked emergency kit: the one place where money HAD been invested. However, little would help the singed, blonde eyebrows. He seemed a vain man and looked upset at his appearance in the cracked mirror.
“You take that back! I only did it to try and get those candy secrets out of him!” Prodnose retorted getting ungracefully up to his feet again, dusting the filth from the cement floor off his bulky form. It was peculiar to see an elderly man dressed in the costume of an old-fashioned train conductor but that had always been Prodnose’s trademark. His family traded train engineering for chocolate making, according to Grandpa Joe.
The Ken doll look-a-like Ficklegruber shot a look right back at him, “And ya haven’t stop talking about it since. My father was sick of hearing about it. Fer Christsakes, it broke up your marriage! One make-out session and you go queer. Ridiculous!”
“You don’t know. You didn’t kiss him…” Muttered the old man as he turned away from embarrassment. Followed by a childishly shouted, “I’m no poof!”
Charlie looked horribly confused, his bright blue-green peepers darting all over the place. Slugworth pushed a small joystick on his wheelchair and it mechanically twirled and whirred over closer to the arguing duo. “Leave…Prodnose alone. He took a bullet for us…and it drove him mad.”
Then he squinted at the boy, wiry eyebrows knitted across his narrow nose; sticking out like the sewer rat’s whiskers in places, “I wonder if his poison…*wheeze* will do the same to you…”
Sick of the entire subject, Ficklegruber stood with arms crossed over his plaid vest, “Homo, pedo, Voodoo priest, virgin sissy boy, whatever Wonka really is, how the heck is he gonna get in contact with us?”
“Trust me…he’ll find a way.” Stated Slugworth aiming a wicked, gap-toothed grin at Charlie.
Psssst! ….hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst….

The elder Oompa-Loompas had already alerted Mrs. Bucket about the situation; gossip served as a powerful force within the factory. The woman had immediately dashed to find her father and the two were currently waiting within a room known as the Lair. This room was the chocolatier’s main headquarters for deep thinking and serious business issues. You’d never find it if you didn’t know where to look. Firstly, the elevator deposited one seemingly in the middle of nowhere. And second, because once a door HAD been found, one had to pass through the perplexing Wonkadelic Room in order to even gain access. A claustrophobic rabbit hole covered in mind-bending graphics, whose real trick was that its entrance inexplicably became an exit into the Liar if one knew how to correctly occupy it. She’d never have figured it out without Grandpa Joe’s help!
Having just arrived, Mrs. Bucket wasn’t sure which new vision was more shocking, the one of her husband upright and walking again or the one of him carrying the unconscious form of Willy Wonka. Mr. Bucket paused briefly to look at her in confusion then preceded to gingerly lay the breathing bundle onto a plush couch, an outlandish piece of furniture in the shape of a long curled tongue with clawed animal feet. At least it was substantial though, not cut in half like so many other objects in the office. Such as the loudly ticking clock with a melted face or his personal writing desk standing on two legs by some force other than gravity. Surreal aesthetics were pleasing to the candymaker, relaxing even in their disturbing nature and so his entire factory, and particularly his personal spaces, were decorated in these ways.
But the woman was most startled as her husband turned back to face her again, the metal his right arm assaulting her sight. So this was what the chocolatier had meant about having a brilliant idea to make him better than he ever was. She wasn’t sure if she’d agree with that description, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was in her life again. Initial hesitation wore off and she walked into the arms of her husband…old and new alike. It felt good to lay her head on his chest again. But Mrs. Bucket did not receive the welcome she expected.
“Do I know you?”
She looked at him with startlement, “Sweetheart it’s me! I’m just um, in a fancy gown because Willy left it as a gift. *chuckle* I feel like a giant cupcake.”
He blinked at her a few more times then squeezed her tightly, nearly too tightly. The arm was going to take a lot of adjusting. “Ohhh, you must be my wife. I knew I had one. Forgive me, there’s some after effect from the surgery. My memory is a little uh, ‘wonky’. Only, I don’t recall you having a stripe of red hair.”
“Wot?” She looked at the strand of hair that he had pulled forward. Sure enough it was a shimmering shade of bright Celtic red. Didn’t people usually go grey from old age and stress? But a more important concern was on her mind. Her words felt like glass cracking, “You don’t remember me?”
“I do…sort of. It’s blurry. I’m sure it will come back to me. I already remembered Grandpa Joe, Wonka, plus our wonderful Charlie. And I recalled uh, how they were fond of each other. Actually...Willy heard what happened to Charlie and passed out straight away.” He released the woman, looking past her shoulder at the man.
“That’s because he cares so much for Charlie.” Stated Grandpa Joe, gently studying the man. “We all do. They’re horrible, wicked men those other candymakers who’ll stoop at nothing to get those secret recipes. They stole a whole human being! A child no less!”
Mrs. Bucket started to weep at the thought of it all; fortunately her outfit had come with a matching handkerchief. “We have to wake him up. Willy will know what to do. He always does.”
Before anyone could get over their hesitation to lay a hand on the unconscious chocolatier, there was the disturbance of banging; loud thuds followed by curses. “Who the hell designs a room that leads nowhere?! Damn it woman, you said this would work!”
In reaction to all the commotion, Mr. Bucket simply opened the office door.
A man in a military uniform looked all around himself in a circle. Then stepped inside along with an even smaller than average and unique Oompa-Loompa, “But-but this is the door that I just walked into! How can it suddenly lead to a room? Crikey Moses, how does Wonka do this crap?”
“Who are these people?” Asked Mr. Bucket, looking at a man about his own age and build with equally black hair but eyes in the palest shade of blue. He also examined the Oompa-Loompa who looked as if she had no irises at all and whose hair was just as white. His assumption that she was female (since both genders looked identical) was based on the fact that the native was wearing a long dress. It was splashed with vivid colors in a symmetrical pattern with billowing butterfly sleeves.
This time he wasn’t the only one wondering who someone was.
“I am Madame Rose. You may know me as the portrait painter.” She curtsied while holding on to an elaborately carved staff. Her voice had an alien, androgynous timbre. “And this is your beloved, known as George Bucket.”
The rest of the family gasped at the young, handsome soldier who stood before them. He tipped his World War II cap.
Grandpa Joe exclaimed, “You took the Wonkavite?!”
“No, I started to use your daughter’s new cold cream. Of course I took the Wonkavite! Three pills worth of the freaky stuff, because this is war! I need to be in tip-top shape for this. Isn’t it grand how my old uniform fits again?” George struck a sharp military pose.
The Buckets were far too overwhelmed to comment or object. The turns in their ordinary lives were not to be believed! Mrs. Bucket managed to say, “Yes, it’s…astonishing to say the least. You look to be my husband’s age. How do you feel?”
“Full of piss and vinegar! It was tempting to get even younger, but I wouldn’t waste the precious stuff after Wonka told us how difficult it was to make. Speaking of the old man, why is he taking a nap at a time like this?” He strode over to the couch. “Someone throw ice water on him for glory’s sake.”
Without any aid whatsoever, the tiny woman had also managed to walk over toward the chocolatier. Of course by her vision, Wonka glowed like a beacon. Madame Rose could have found him at the bottom of a well on another continent if she had to. “He’s not sleeping, he’s in a trance. I don’t recommend ice water. It is very bad for him to be unconscious without the protective wards.”
Joe said with trepidation. “Why does he need protective wards?”
“Because…unusual things have been known to occur when that imagination isn’t controlled.” Her doll-sized hands were hovering an inch above his form as she methodically moved them about.
“Like wot?” Insisted Mr. Bucket, wrinkling his brow slightly. How much more weird could things possibly get?
“Like the fact that it’s currently raining frogs outside.” Said Grandpa George matter-of-a-factly.
“Is it REALLY raining frogs outside? How is that possible?!” Exclaimed, Mrs. Bucket.
Exactly as she said that, playful sounds from a miniature carousel that Mr. Wonka kept on his desk had begun playing on it’s own, causing everyone to jump. That could have been excused as a coincidence, but then the tiny horses began walking off and moving around on their own. Grandpa Joe bent down to examine one of the tiny creatures as it stamped and neighed, “I say, I’ve never seen them do that before. I don’t suppose they’re clockwork?”
Madame Rose was mumbling and chanting incoherent things.
The entire room began flashing through a myriad of colors, surroundings appearing to disappear into each other leaving even the integrity of the floor they were standing upon questionable. Lines in the paisley wallpaper had started to shift wildly; designs madly swimming about like amoebas under a microscope. The new patterns spelling out the same word over and over again:
~ R E S T O R E R ~
“What are you doing? It’s getting worse!” Shouted Mrs. Bucket. An inexplicable wind blew about her hair and multi-layered dress. She clung to her husband as the whole family was clinging to each other. It felt as if the Lair was going to burst apart at any moment!
Madame Rose ignored them and continued with the task at hand, eyes sealed tightly she slowly drew back the carved staff and thrust it forward as if she was going to slam him on the head. But ceased the momentum a centimeter above the space on the forehead between his eyes. Then with the very tip of the cocoa bean shaped top, she ever so gently, ‘bonked’ him.
Mr. Wonka sat up immediately and everything went back to normal in a giant backward ‘whoosh’ as he screamed at the top of his lungs a desperate, “CHAAARLIEEE!”
He was quiet as his eyes came into focus of the surroundings.
“...that was the most terriblest nightmare I’ve ever had. I’m not supposta’ have nightmares.” Chest heaving, he looked around, his face morphed from childlike worry to sophisticated annoyance, “Why are all you people in my office? Wait…why am I in my office? Madame Rose! Howdy-do, what brings you here?”
“It wasn’t a dream.” She croaked, a permanent ‘frog’ in her own tone.
“Ya mean, Charlie’s..really been…”
“Please don’t faint again, Willy.” Mr. Bucket said, one arm out-stretched, the other clinging to his shuddering wife. He didn’t feel one single bit foolish any longer for that earlier question. A few had formed about this ‘portrait painter’ as well. Nothing appeared to be what it was on the surface.
Joe was next to speak, and he did so gently, nodding, as you might to a vicious guard dog that you were attempting not to upset, “We need to get in touch with the other candymakers. We need to find out where they are and what they want.”
Wonka slid his legs to the floor causing all of the Buckets to back up a step in coincidental unison. There was no telling what the man might do next, especially after that inexplicably bizarre demonstration. But all he did was remove his pocket watch. He flicked open the back to examine the maze of intricate ticking gears. The tremor of his hand was nearly imperceptible, but all of them noticed it anyway. The candymaker spoke softly in return, “Yer absolutely right Joe. We do have to contact them. My watch is connected to the one I gave...Charlie. He’s in Slugworth’s factory.”
“Well let’s attack them there then! Bomb the joint!” George announced.
A slight smile managed to form on Willy’s face then, “Aren’t you lookin’ Wonka-vital today? Sharp uniform too.”
“At your service.” He saluted, the chocolatier quirked one eyebrow in amusement.
Wonka began, rising to his feet. “As tempting as your offer is Gran-, er, George. I don’t think a direct attack…especially where my heir is..being held is the best course of action. It would also cause quite the commotion in this little town. No, I..I believe its time for my old friends and I to see each other again. Face...to Face.”
“But what DO they want?” Mrs. Bucket re-stated with panic.
With scorn Madame Rose replied, “What they’ve always wanted…”
Face not exactly complacency; not exactly any emotion that could be labeled since what was being presented clearly wasn’t whatever was truly being felt. But the eyes, they seemed to have turned some sort of sinister – a way that he held them had changed somehow. Slowly, he spoke, distant and demented, the slightest turn at the side of his mouth, “And…they’re going to get it.”

Author’s Notes:
Ack! I was determined to finish this! Now I have a bunch of things to catch up on including lovely words that need to be read. Were that I not limited by time and physical parameters…oh wait, then I probably wouldn’t be able to type either.
“All the other chocolate makers, you see, had grown jealous of Mr. Wonka.” is a quote from Grandpa Joe in the book and film. It also sums up a lot about life in general.
Somebody slap Idol Hands for the blatant Star Wars reference in the opening scene. Didn’t get it? Two words…Darth Vader. Mr. Wonka’s other ever-so-mature personal joke was in reference to Inspector Gadget, a DIC cartoon that my sister and I enjoyed thoroughly in our youth. Oh, and it’s also a movie (2 actually). Yawn.
PLEASE LOOK HERE: http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/mad_dr.jpg
Horror + Mayhem + Dr. Frankenstein’s Monster + Young Doctor Frankenstein the movie + Willy Wonka + Gene Wilder = You get the connection.
Part of my concept of Mr. Bucket’s arm would come from Sorayama’s artwork of ‘Gynoids’. Scans of male androids from my personal Sorayama collection - the artist rarely uses men as subjects.
1. http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/LeonardoDaVinciGynoidstyle.jpg
2. http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/SorayamaMan.jpg
3. http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/gynoi000.jpg
“M” you may or may not recognize as the brute who sold the look-alike urchin, Sebastian, to Mr. Wonka in my dark slash/shota story Cravings found in this very forum. Reoccurring original fan fic characters? Is that bad? I’m as surprised as you are.
It really has rained frogs. Learn more here though I like my explanation:
1. http://allaboutfrogs.org/weird/general/raining.html
2. http://paranormal.about.com/library/weekly/aa082602a.htm
Nobody but me probably remembers a short-lived sci-fi series called Earth 2 starring Tim Curry who played a delightful degenerate. In the series he made potentially dubious friends (we never found out his true motives) with a young girl whom he provocatively nick-named, “Poppet.” I liked the character’s whole vibe, but didn’t focus much what more could be implied until recently.
The Note: I SWEAR I wasn’t going to have Mr. Wonka rhyme again. However, as soon as I started typing, it was like my fingers got possessed. Writing letters in lemon juice really will work. Squeeze out a lemon then dip a paintbrush in the juice and write the letter. Allow it to dry and very carefully hold it up to a small flame like candlelight and the letters will appear.
“Your Candyman Always” was inspired by Loony Lucifer’s fiction My Candyman also in this forum. It also seemed an appropriate way for him to sign off.
All rooms are based off of a real list created for the films. The Wonkadelic Room appeared in the first movie. I sort of missed it. So, it’s back.
Anyone who loves Gene Wilder’s portrayal of Willy Wonka is probably as fond of his surreal office as I am. I imagined that (Etcetera! Etcetera!) on top of a Daliesque theme running throughout, hence the tongue couch (my invention) and melted clock. For those of us struggling with reality, surrounding oneself with things felt/seen inside of OUR mind is satisfying even if it disturbs others.
I should just include this with every damn volume. "Is It Scary" by Michael Jackson. My inspiration for the title.
Free download: http://www.yousendit.com/transfer.php?action=download&ufid=64FB92AA16133F3B.
P.S. I LOVED all the reviews last time. You guys rock, really drove me to keep going, sorry I had to leave you on such a cliff hanger! But it was a pleasure to hear from new voices! And it's true, I'm lucky that Willy is such a chatterbox - he makes it easy to update, but he's a very demanding muse!
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Is It Scary