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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
- 22
- 23
- 24
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.
________________________________________________________

Title: Is It Scary, XXII - PART II
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark & Mature Themes. Violence (some gore), n/c, Sexual situations, Slash, Angst, Hostage, Paganism and an under-aged/adult (shota/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.
Tunes: Chicago Harmonica Blues (mp3):
//www.megaupload.com/?d=SKLGHDDE
Beta Thanks: marama_tsg & pet_pet_angel.
IMAGE: Young Willy Wonka
http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/YoungWillyWonka.jpg
Summary: Continuation from Volume 22; Tales of Mr. Wonka as a young man, a periodic table within the space and span of time. They say we are the sum of our parts but some sums remain paradoxes. Presenting an equation where one unknown element plus three charted chemicals resulted in a solution too unstable to last, three divided against one, reacting radioactively in a cataclysmic chain, leaving zero further undefined.
Tip: making your window narrow like a book page can help with reading longer texts.

"double, double, toil and trouble"

It’s a pleasant Sunday afternoon; men, women and children are mingling about, most still dressed in their better church clothes; everyone relaxed with ceremonies over. The air is crisp, but not the harsh chill of later decades.
From the largest store on the corner, a slender young man in a velvet jacket slips out, attempting to look nonchalant among the crowd. No one has seen him attend any kind of mass, although his creations have been known to cause exclamations of enlightenment! A gloved hand holds down a matching crimson top hat as he decides to rush, in a moment managing to weave through people while crossing the modest main street of town. Locating a favorite spot, he crouches down among the children, joining them to fixate on the contents of an extravagant display window.
Inside the store is a middle-aged man with a slight paunch, his wife shouting at him from the back room while he shovels out perfectly molded licorice wagon wheels and functional candy whistles to cloistering customers. It’s a gesture done hundreds of times within a day until he feels like an assembly line robot. The lone, brightly colored stranger crouching under the reversed “Prodnose” logo catches his eye. He knows it’s the new candyman, the one his friends have been gossiping about.
The shop’s owner continued on to his next customer, fulfilling a request for an “Engine Fuel” soda -- sugar water dyed cerulean with a kick of extra bicarbonate. His attention is still on the new candyman, who has visited the shop window everyday to watch the toy trains. Today they trigger lights and a couple of automated animals as they run along their electric path. Mr. Prodnose set it up special the night before. This addition to the display successfully causes the handsome young man to beam, exposing the brightest and most perfect smile the older candymaker had ever seen; warm as Christmas morning.
“Watch wot you’re doing!!”
Mr. Prodnose realized he’d over-poured the soda while distracted. “Dear me…”
His wife came out with a sour face and a mop, using both to push him away from the back counter. He mused weakly, “Maybe it is time for a break.”
Eagerly waddling outside, he decided to sidle up to the new guy. Wiping his hand on stained dungarees and outstretching it with an informal introduction, “’ello, I’m Prodnose, you must be Wonka.”
There was an apprehensive glance at the sticky palm before unceremoniously and gleefully bursting out with, “Know what’d be neat? If ya had ‘em choo-choo across the WHOLE place! They could even deliver candies directly tah customers! I wish they could puff smoke and sound a steam trumpet like the big ones!”
His eyes were wide as saucers; pale sunlight of day lit them up allowing Mr. Prodnose to notice they were also a shade of purple that matched the embroidered floral vest exactly -- he’d never seen that feature on a person before either. What an extraordinary individual the young man appeared to be.
Wonka shouted, “I THINK I CAN, I THINK I CAN! WHOO, WHOO!”
The shopkeeper was dumbfounded by the remark, but had to chortle at his enthusiasm. Willy panicked; misinterpreting the laughter and suddenly dashing away back to his own shop, boot heels clicking loudly against cement like a pony’s hooves. He entered through a backdoor with a jangle of keys kept on a brass ring, dropping them in his nervousness then getting his coat tails getting caught in the jab; clumsy antics causing more laughter from others watching. Mr. Fickelgruber had been outside selling frozen treats and saw the entire exchange. He looked at his neighbor with a coo-coo whistle while making a screwball motion at the side of his head. Prodnose shrugged back, it wasn’t a bad idea he thought, before his wife yanked him back indoors. Under his breath, the former conductor repeated, “I think I can, I think I can…”
And about a week later, he did.
The Choo-Choo Chocolade Express was a huge success with customers, who’d order sweets for the delight of watching them be delivered by toy trains! Wonka hadn’t returned to Prodnose’s store again, so there had been no way to offer gratitude. This prompted the older man to take some initiative…
Every evening, for hours after all the employees had left, a light could still be seen coming from the back of Willy Wonka’s shop, along with the shadow of a figure wearing a top hat lurking about. It also wasn’t uncommon to hear sounds resembling explosions or catch a whiff of brimstone. Heavens only knew what the man was up to or if he ever slept, they’d say, but certainly the chocolatier’s astounding dedication to his craft left little room for dating or socializing.
Mr. Prodnose rang the bell and rapped on the door, but no response came. He’d suspected that might happen. Unbuttoning a wide pocket on his jumpsuit, an envelope was removed, then squatting down with a grunt; he slipped it into the flawlessly polished letter flap. Doing so caused a melody to jingle out like opening a wind-up jewelry box:
Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka!
The amazing chocolatier!
Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka!
Everybody give a cheer!
With a chuckle, the man mused at both the cleverness and folderol of the presentation. It was true that this new competitor in town was young, but Mr. Prodnose suspected that he was even younger at heart. Waltzing back into the night, whistling Wonka’s jingle to himself, he did not see the cat-like movements of a shadow that immediately scooped up the note. Nor, therefore, could he make out the inexplicable splatters of orange and green dye, all over its body, which had made the shadow’s possessor unwilling to answer the door.
That following evening, Mr. Prodnose, Mr. Fickelgruber, and Mr. Slugworth were sitting in their regular booth at the local tavern to unwind and talk shop. The subject tonight was one that had been dominating their conversations lately. Their shouts could be made out over the general chatter of patrons.
“He’s got all the dames in a fuss too! Hausfraus are a core part of my business, ya know! I’ve spent a fortune keepin’ up with that attention-stealing wardrobe!!” Fickelgruber stood up to demonstrate his point, turning around in order to display a freshly tailored, boldly patterned suit. He was the spitting image of Fickelgruber junior, an attractive man with a cleft chin and naturally sandy blonde hair. “Gotta make sure my packages are equally up to snuff and I ain’t talking about candy, if ya catch my drift. Have ya noticed how tight he wears those trousers?”
The confectioner sat back down in a huff. “My wife certainly did.”
“Never mind that. Have you tasted his candy bars?! Positively sinful the amount of cocoa butter and cream he uses; makes our stuff taste like cardboard.” Slugworth piped up, leaning near the table to add, “Wot’s more, he constantly has bizarre things shipped in. One day a dozen boxes came from Tahiti, another a whole crate from Peru and today the mailman had a special delivery post from the Queen Mum!!”
“She wanted to know if I’d consider making dog treats.” Said a fluty voice.
The worn floorboards had not creaked in the usual manner to indicate any approach. Startled, Mr. Fickelgruber and Mr. Slugworth gaped at the brightly smiling person who’d suddenly appeared standing before their table. Conversely, Mr. Prodnose stood up and gestured Mr. Wonka to slide in, “Er, uhm, I-I invited him. Dab hand did me a good turn with that train idea. Figured the least I could do was offer to buy ‘im a drink.”
“Boy was business hopping today! I sure could go for a chocolate malt -- double chocolate sauce, three cherries, but hold the whipped cream.” The last part of his giddy remark was whispered while patting his flat stomach, “Watchin’ my weight.”
“Yeah? So’s Prodnose. Watching it accumulate that is.” Mr. Fickelgruber smirked; their business partner deserved at least one jab for this rather unpleasant surprise. “But uh, they ain’t got no chocolate malts here, kiddo.”
“Oh.” Wonka paused. Then lit up again with, “How ‘bout strawberry? Banana’s nice too!”
“I’m afraid not.” Responded Prodnose; restraining his chuckle, remembering the effect one had from their last encounter.
The smell of sizzling meat and deep-fried food wafted through the air along with the tangy odor of spirits. A buxom waitress arrived, looking expectantly at them for an order.
“We’ll all take another round of lager with an order of fish and chips. Wee Willy Wonka here’ll have a glass of your finest milk. Can ya do that, sweetheart?” Said Fickelgruber with a wink.
She looked to the new patron for assurance that this was indeed the order.
“With three cherries!” And a gleaming smile indicated that it was.
The others snickered as she waltzed away. Slugworth glanced at him, “Like popping cherries, do you?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Willy said, confused.
“Well it so happens that our waitress is named Cherry and for the right price she pops anyone.”
A horrified look sprouted on Wonka’s face while the other men laughed. A moment later, sounds of a humble live singer accompanied by a piano began from a modest stage, softening the mood slightly.
Des yeux qui font baiser les miens,
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,
Voila le portrait sans retouche
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens
Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose…
Fickelgruber, seated across, lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and squinted at him while taking a long drag. “There’s something real familiar about you, kiddo. What part of the states do you hail from?”
“I’ve done a lot of traveling, but I’m British born. From this very town actually, that’s kinda why I wanted to open my first shop here. He, he, he.” Teeth flashing once again in flawless alignment while he nervously fidgeted; shoulders stiffly squared inside a plush jacket.
“Lucky us.” Slugworth muttered sarcastically, posture coiled. Without asking he slid a cigarette out from his cohort’s pack. It was ungracefully ignited with the flame from a worn table decoration.
“But ya sound American.” Insisted Mr. Fickelgruber, since that fact had previously made he alone exotic. Legs wide open, he comfortably sprawled within the space.
“I err…had American tutors growin’ up. Yeah.” The candymaker looked impressed with his own uncertain response. Eyes then darted away from the other men’s inspection.
The waitress returned and delivered their orders, Wonka leaning exaggeratedly away from her arm as his was placed down. He continued, “Americans are the pioneers of commercial mass marketing, especially television. I’ve been keepin’ an eye on everything from children’s programs to music videos!”
What that could possibly have to do with running their everyday business, the men had no idea. They watched as Wonka stuck his hands into his pockets and began dumping the contents onto the table, bundles wrapped in linen handkerchiefs; one of which he promptly used to wipe down his area and another placed elegantly underneath the tall glass. Left behind was a yo-yo, a deck of cards, colored plastic spoons, seashells, knotted bits of string, money from various countries and a chromatic harmonica. These were some of the items accompanying a dozen packets of sugar, each of which were plucked out and speedily being stirred into the milk.
“Everything’s better with sugar, don’t you agree?! I mean it’s fantabulous tah meet others who love candy as much as I do! Growin’ up, people thought I was totally bonkers!” He released a particularly strained, high-pitched giggle. The men might have offered another wisecrack at that, but the removal of a switchblade from his breast pocket, metal swiftly flicked out, kept them focused and quiet.
Dusk had turned to night outside, making the restaurant even darker. Stained glass windows permitted no view in or out. Relaxed patrons had become intoxicated and louder; a few couples were shoulder dancing but at the moment, the candymen’s table had become a bubble universe, causing everything else to fade away.
Still concentrating on his work, maraschino cherries were carefully spliced into roses and floated onto the bubbly froth on top. As a final effect, young Mr. Wonka opened the last packet of large, raw sugar granules -- sprinkling them from above like fairy dust, causing the whole thing to delicately sparkle under the candlelight of the dim bar. The even features of the young man took on a new appearance too under the play of shadow; looking up, he resembled a wild-eyed wizard rather than an over-enthusiastic novice.
The other men stared in awe.
“It’s too pretty to eat…” Prodnose said quietly.
“Fiddle-dee-dee, pretty things should be appreciated.” Wonka said dismissively. Form-fitted leather gloves crinkled and spread like curtains as he pushed the creation toward them, “Go ‘head, give it a taste. The proof of the pudding is in the eatin’.”
Mr. Prodnose went for it first, “Caw! Blimey! I’d go to the moon for this! It even tastes like vanilla now. How’d you do that?”
“Some of the sugar packets had been sittin’ on my fresh shipment of Tahitian vanilla beans. Musta’ leaked into them.” The candymaker’s coy manner suggested that the result was mere happenstance instead of any calculated maneuver. The statement also explained some of his recent, exotic parcels.
Curiosity had gotten the better of Fickelgruber and he’d taken a slurp. He commented, “Mmm, It’s got syrup at the bottom as well.”
Wonka’s giggle acquired more mirth, something vying between a child with a favorite toy and a discovery made by a mad inventor, “That’s my favorite part! If you sweeten it enough, the extra sugar crystals gather at the bottom and do that.”
As it was slid over to Slugworth, he added, “Try it with a rose and it’ll become cherry vanilla flavored.”
“Right then. And why don’t you try a sip of ale?” The petit man pushed his untouched glass over with a twinge of mischievousness. “…since we’re sharing.”
Willy’s smile became frozen as he examined the dark liquid. He didn’t want to be rude to his new friends, after all. Reluctantly, he picked up the mug as Mr. Slugworth sucked on the milk straw. A choke and gag followed soon after. Wonka hastily lifted a monogrammed handkerchief to his mouth with a dissatisfied expression of disgust. “Yuck! There has to be a way to make liquor taste better than that.”
It seemed apparent to the men that this genius, this slip of a thing (to their eyes), that they were convinced was so conniving, hadn’t even been to a real bar before! He was totally wet behind the ears! A series of smirks was exchanged between them and silently the quote, “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer”, sprang mutually to mind.
“Aw, you’re a good chap for trying.” Stated Prodnose. “Wash it out with a swallow of your potion there.”
However, a gurgling suction noise indicated that Mr. Slugworth had at that very second finished the very last drop of the very same drink that they’d previously taunted the young man for ordering in the first place. He said unapologetically, “It went well with those cookies from your pockets.”
“You mean the…doggie biscuits.” Corrected Willy. Another old adage proved true; he who laughs last, does indeed laugh hardest. The one left gagging and choking now was Slugworth as a new melody began being sung:
That old black magic has me in its spell
That old black magic that you weave so well
Icy fingers up and down my spine
The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine
The same old tingle that I feel inside
When that elevator starts its ride
Down and down I go, round and round I go
Like a leaf that's caught in the tide…
Despite Slugworth uncontrollably barking for days thereafter, that memorable evening was the first of many competitively friendly gatherings.
Around this same time, the chocolatier developed his “Butter Scotch” and “Butter Rum” formulas, rendering liquor as palatable as syrup. The tonics were successfully sold to the local pub, which drove patrons to his shop for bottles of similarly liquor-filled chocolates. It also allowed Willy to feel less out-of-place, by being able to order the occasional drink himself (even though it gave him a bad case of hiccups).
Willy Wonka did sincerely try to help the other storeowners improve their wares, though unlike candy, tact was not one of his specialties. In fact, his numerous oddities, which would constantly pop up despite forced efforts at social graces, became the source of many a private joke. There was no way around it – Willy Wonka was weird. But he still encouraged them, one by one: Fickelgruber to try new recipes, Slugworth to use higher quality ingredients & improve his salesmanship, then Prodnose to have as much passion for his products as he did for his equipment. Likewise the younger man’s keen ability to observe and learn through osmosis allowed him to gain the better aspects of his rival’s faults: Fickelgruber taught him confidence (from where the phrase “confidence is key” was acquired) and establishing signature products, versus the chaotic conceptual splurges he usually went on. Slugworth’s frugality and sneaky nature caused him to ponder economics and learn there was always more than one way to skin a cat, and Prodnose proved that machines could be used to create marvels impossible by human touch alone. However, Willy being the youngest, least educated and by technical accounts the most inexperienced chocolatier, they often felt it was they who should be the mentors; arrogance and pride frequently stood in the way of listening to his advice. Sometimes ideas were used, but they’d claim credit. This dishonesty greatly enraged Wonka though he usually found subversive ways to balance the scales without destroying the camaraderie, chalking it up to getting better at business.
For Wonka had a golden touch; everything he did, he did well, and ten times better than anyone else. It was nearly impossible not to be jealous of such talent -- merely being in proximity to the candymaker proved potentially detrimental! As time went on, the men were finding that they simply could not compete; they weren’t as smart, quick, worldly, dedicated or inventive as he. In other words, they were going to have to find other ways to keep themselves from being put out of a job! Slugworth, Fickelgruber and Prodnose decided that if they couldn’t beat him in strengths, then they would search out weaknesses.
While much information was exchanged and discussed between the candymakers, it could be sensed that Wonka always held much back. The distance was interpreted negatively, especially since the young man’s final recipes were completely off limits (notes of which were always kept in pocket-sized notebooks). Willy drew a non-negotiable line there; therefore the others became convinced that somewhere in them must be keys to how his mind worked, keys to his success. So partly from the challenge of it and partly from desperation, the three men became determined to get a look at one of those note books!
As another old adage goes: “Alls fair in love and war”.
This was both.

An advantageous opportunity presented itself on the celebratory eve of the chocolatier’s one-year success as a storefront. And on that same week, “Whipple Scrumptious FudgeMallow Delight” became the #1 selling candy bar in the entire world! To the surprise of patrons, a band and dancing girls had been paid to entertain for the evening. Dressed in sequins and feathers, Mr. Wonka was entranced as anyone else by the women’s performance, doing his unusual swaying and bobbing to the synchronized beat. Drums pounded, a string bass strummed, and brass horns wailed. People danced about and everyone helped themselves to colorful cocktails made with the sweetest liquor. There was a joyful feeling in the air. The other candymakers sat slightly behind the man of honor, watching events unfold.
Mr. Prodnose muttered, “It wasn’t easy, but I got a blonde, a redhead, a brunette and that dark-skinned Chiquita. There’s gotta be something on the menu he’ll like.”
“Personally I’d take a slice of each.” Mr. Slugworth said nearly drooling. He was the bachelor of the trio and with good reason.
One woman was bold enough to plop herself into the young candymaker’s lap, wrapping a boa around his neck as she whispered, “Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
Startled as he was, Wonka looked back and responded, “It’s a harmonica actually.”
“Wotever you want to call it, big boy.”
The dancer became flustered as the man nudged her off his thighs and began reaching into his pants. He explained, “Heh. It’s rather long. I’m afraid I’m going to need tah stand up to show you.”
Their actions had caused many patrons to gawk as he rummaged around with effort, final removal of the object accented by an obscene slide of sound from the trombone player. Laughter ensued. Willy turned to the watchers and announced, “And I can play it too!”
On cue, a bright spotlight flashed upon him.
They cheered the candymaker on as he slung the feather boa over one shoulder, shifted his top hat to a jaunty tilt and jumped onto the stage. He tapped the microphone with a giggle and a nerdish sounding, “Testing, one, two, testing.”
Cupping the instrument within his hands, he took a deep breath and pressed it to his mouth:
size="4">WhhHHHHhaAAAAOOOLOooooooo!
Fingers jerked and flicked around feverishly as he slid it along his lips. The first long wail evolving into complex hums of slippery rhythm, pronounced by breath and the pressure of his tongue, fluxuating vibrato accenting notes that resembled a human voice. Willy didn’t just know how to play a harmonica -- he owned it!
WhhaaaAAAA!
Whaamp, whaaahahhnnNN, wha-wha-wha, whamp!
Whaamp, whaaahahhnnNN, wha-wha-wha, whamp!
MMmmnnnLalalalalaalaaaaAAAAAALlllnnnnn!
Whan, whan, whan, whan!
WhhHHHHhaAAAAOOOLOooooooo!
Lost in the music he was creating, the band began to follow along as best as possible with beat and string. Everyone was thoroughly impressed, particularly the dancing women who had promoted themselves to his back-up chorus. Costumes sparkled like stars under the blare of stage lights as they manufactured unison moves such as snapping fingers and shaking hips. The candymaker only paused briefly to offer his broadest, most grateful smile to his friends seated in the audience. They managed to wipe the startled looks off their faces in order to smile back, but inside each was a seething of great envy, a feeling that had been building over time and which this scene was doing nothing to improve. As soon as Wonka’s head bent down upon his instrument again, cheeks alternately puffing and concaving. Their friendly expressions became scowls.
“Hotshot showoff! Always has to be the center of attention!”
“Playing us for muggins, with that simple and naive act.”
“Well this time it’s going to do him in, chaps.”
Then their jaws had to drop a little further again as Willy broke away from the mouth harp to sing lyrics. This too was done as sweetly as any sugar he spun.
Well all you ladies gather ‘round,
The good sweet candy man’s in town,
It’s the candyman,
The candyman.
He’s got a stick of candy nine-inch long,
He sells it as fast as a hog can chew corn,
It’s the candy man,
It’s the candy man.
Whaamp, whaaahahhnnNN, wha-wha-wha, whamp!
You all heard what Sister Jones has said,
Always takes a candy stick to bed,
It’s the candy man,
It’s the candy man.
Don’t stand close to the candy man,
He’ll leave a candy stick in your hand,
It’s the candy man,
It’s the candy man.
Whaamp, whaaahahhnnNN, wha-wha-wha, whamp!
He sold some candy to Sister Bad,
The very next day, she took all he had,
It’s the candy man, it’s the candy man.
If you try his candy, good friend of mine,
You sure will want it for a long time,
It’s the candy man,
It’s the candy man.
His stick candy don’t melt away,
Just gets better so the ladies say,
It’s the candy man,
It’s the candy man!
WhhaaaAAAA!
Whaamp, whaaahahhnnNN, wha-wha-wha, whamp!
Whaamp, whaaahahhnnNN, wha-wha-wha, whamp!
MMmmnnnLalalalalaalaaaaAAAAAALlllnnnnn!
Whan, whan, whan, whan!
WhhHHHHhaAAAAOOOLOooooooo!
After a while of performing with the girls and the band, even joining a Can-can dance at one point (during which he nearly fell but was caught), the man and the audience did become weary. Slower melodies were the request of the latter part of the evening.
Clammy and out of breath, the shop owner took a much-earned bow before exiting the stage to the back room, where he’d been summoned. The dancing girls too, were entitled to a break and altogether too anxious to spend it with the talented, polite and handsome gentleman. Once inside, a tray with refreshments faced away from the mirrored wall. Gratefully Wonka reached for the pitcher of ice water, pouring a glass that was quickly being guzzled down. Chattanooga Choo Choo, a jazzy but smooth melody, could be discerned in the background. The brunette came up behind him, her eyes tracing his body like a cat as she slid long, fake fingernails up his velvety arms and to his shoulders.
“Take your coat?”
Without looking back at her, switching hands so that he could keep drinking, he permitted the stuffy garment to be removed.
“Wherever did a white boy like you learn to play The Blues like that?” Said the exotic one while sliding off her high heel shoes, sounds of snaps and buttons following in cue.
“Ridin’ rail road trains with other hobos, err, I mean passengers. I’ve traveled all over the place and music is a great way to pass the time. Yeah.” Another glass of water was being downed. He paused, “Of course to really play The Blues properly, ya gotta have a sadness…deep down in yer soul.”
His features caught up with the words that had come out of his own mouth. Had he really just said that out loud? From behind, various voices spoke.
“Aw, poor pretty baby.”
“Why don’t you give us a ride?”
“We’ll suck that sadness right out of you, candyman.”
The blonde let loose a braying laugh. She grabbed at his rear end, causing Willy to yelp and spin around, discovering that the women were practically naked at this point! Their dancing garments were draped and strewn around, fantasy glamour reduced to curtain rags. The redhead seated upon the make-up counter suggestively split her legs open. Exact sizes and shapes of every female’s breasts and nipples was no longer a fact unknown. This was not something the chocolatier had anticipated or ever been “exposed” to; being considered attractive was somewhat new. He froze. Dewdrops of sweat traced their bodies like chilled ones formed on the glass dropped to the floor. Limbs, lips, scents and sensations of warm, curved people completely unfamiliar to him were suddenly everywhere. It wasn’t much space, more like a large closet, certainly too confining for five people and getting smaller by the second. His pulse quickened, as did the loud music on stage drowning out their every word to any potential eavesdropper.
“No, please…stop.” His voice was small, frightened.
“Wot’s the matter, honey?”
“Got a bird? We’ll never tell.”
“We know how to keep a secret.”
“Yes, you can tell us all your secrets.”

Mr. Slugworth and Mr. Fickelgruber, slightly inebriated and attempting to entertain (as well as distract) what was left of the party attendees, had begun doing a preposterous ballroom dance together. Mr. Prodnose was seated, clapping hands and stomping his feet to the beat. The trio halted upon the sight of a disheveled Mr. Wonka, bolting like a bat out of Hell from the dressing room and dashing to the back of the pub -- he was quite speedy when he wanted to be! A moment later the quartet of women came strutting over, pouting, coats pulled firmly closed, high heels clacking the floor as sharply as a flamenco dancer’s. They glared at the other candymen, throwing Wonka’s hat and coat at them.
“We got nothing. ’e didn’t bloody want any of us!”
“Look, we REALLY wanted that extra bonus you promised, but it felt like we was molesting a five-year-old!”
“Is he some kind of uptight religious nutter or wot?”
“I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Hmph!”
They all agreed upon the last remark and stomped out the door to the parked van they’d arrived in. It was a pity that none of them would visit a doctor in time to be made aware of the damaging venereal diseases they were carrying, ones that would eventually destroy their own reproductive organs (and worse) without proper treatment.
The three candymakers looked baffled at one another.
“Nutter? Definitely. Though near as I can tell the guy’s totally Godless, so it wasn’t that.” Mr. Fickelgruber said scratching his head, expensive plan put to ruins. “I mean how picky can a guy be?!”
Removing a rose from between his yellowed teeth, Slugworth’s said, “Why I don’t believe any lady could please our…friend. I do believe he’s light-footed.”
“Pardon?” Said Prodnose. “Wot’s his dance moves to do with anything?”
“No, no, no. Sluggy thinks Weirdo Willy is…” Mr. Fickelgruber was sure to state under his breath, hand cupped, “a homosexual..”
Adding, “Disgusting as that is, it sure would explain a lot.”
“NOTHING explains Wonka, but this might be a good way to get closer to him.” Slugworth posed a wry grin to his good-looking, younger partner.
Fickelgruber choked from the shock of understanding his comrade’s suggestion, looking rather uncertain he responded, “*hack!* *cough!* Hey, I ain’t no angel but I’ve never been to Sodom or Gomorrah.”
“Do you want those secret formulas or not?” Insisted Slugworth angrily, his small body tense within an ill-fitting, cheap suit.
“I’ll do it!”
The other two men were taken aback by Prodnose’s rather anxious volunteering. They looked back at one another -- this was turning into a very interesting night indeed!

Sulking in the darkest corner, as far away as possible from any living soul, sat Willy Wonka.
Over the year, he and the former train conductor had probably formed the strongest bond, a connection brought about by an equal dissatisfaction with life and a similar ability to get lost in their imagination; in the older man’s case, it was a frustration of having been talked into giving up his career for the sake of raising a family that never came into fruition, of letting someone else control his life. A shuffling from old boots disturbed the solitude, as did a glass that was ineptly clunked upon the table seconds later. “Got you a fresh drink. Told ‘em to do it how you like, extra sweet and fancy.”
It was a jolly, common voice Mr. Prodnose had, one that could evoke trust or aggravation depending on your mood. At the moment it was doing a bit of both. Wonka deigned to look at the table, fully prepared to turn the beverage down. But there it was: a gigantic hourglass, delightful shade of magenta, miniature umbrellas, a skewer of colorful fruit and a bendy straw. He loved bendy straws. Plus today was still a special occasion. Why this creation was made with his very own products, proof positive of his own dreams and hard work finally coming to fruition. He deserved at least one drink to his own success. Yeah. A tiny twinkle appeared in his eye.
There was a polite mumble of gratitude before he reached for it, sucking down a slow cool swallow, then lamenting, “I made a goshdarn fool of myself.”
“Certainly not. Everyone thought your performance was brilliant, top notch!” Mr. Prodnose had watched ordinary actions with interest; he was aware that it was a very talented mouth the young man possessed.
“Heh. Heh. Really? That’s very flat—ah, but, er…I meant with the ladi—um, w-women rather.” Calling those people “ladies” didn’t seem quite fitting. Nerves caused him to take a few more swallows, hiding his face and shame, looking more a boy than a man.
“Oh, that.” Prodnose played dumb, sitting beside him in the long booth. “Not very experienced in that department, eh?”
Willy looked at his fellow candymaker annoyed for the assumption. Then gave up the bluff with a sigh, gently admitting, “…no.”
“Buck up! You’re young and besides, it was a relief to find anything you weren’t immediately amazing at!” He put an arm around Wonka’s shoulder, making an admittance of his own, with a clink of his flask against the tropical drink, “Take it from a more ‘experienced’ fellow, you’re not missing much. The fairer sex can be lovely, but their company comes at a great cost.”
“Mmmm….”, Wonka mused, nibbling at the fruit skewer. From far in his past, he knew more about that subject than Prodnose could be aware and found those words to be darkly true. He felt the man’s arm squeezing around him and didn’t mind at the moment. Instead it was nice to be in the company of someone of the same gender, whose scent and sensations were familiar, even reticent of…of…something though he wasn’t sure if he’d ever really experienced it.
Feeling light-headed, he closed his eyes, neck bending to rest on the other candymaker -- alone in a dark void of thought -- mind drifting…fixating…on a word...an idea…missing from the celebration…missing from…everything. Out of the blackest blue, a vortex, he remembered, and barely whispered the word.
“father.”
Mr. Prodnose could not discern what was said as the moist, ripe lips parted. However those lowered shadowed lids, that flawless skin, this limp helpless posture were calling, had been, he admitted to himself, for a long time now. This wasn’t just a favor to Slugworth or Fickelgruber. This was giving in to an urge, a bad one, and using them as an excuse. He gently stroked the short, lush hair – color of rich chocolate itself, bouquet none too different. Cheeks were flushed from both warmth and drunkenness. His clothes were uncharacteristically disheveled; even the top button of his pants was undone. Suggestive. Particularly since his underwear was made of silk. Willy was fascinatingly androgynous, credited it seemed, with the best of both sexes in one body; a welcome difference from the qualities he’d grown bitter about while still possessing those most alluring. Intoxicating. He subtly licked his own vestigial lips.
“As you said, pretty things are meant to be appreciated and those tarts could never have appreciated you properly, could they of?”
“No one understands me.” The young man slurred in response, followed by the jerking of a gentle hiccup. He sounded terribly sad, like a person with a wish that had never come true. Coming from someone who granted them on a daily basis, to countless consumers, made it even more heart aching.
“I think I do.” The older man held him tighter, arms lower, more like an embrace. He stammered excitedly, “Maybe…maybe we could, go into business together, just us two? I’ll finally leave my shrew of a wife and we’ll be all the other ever needs. Oh, it would be wonderful to see that smile of yours actually on Christmas morning.”
Willy was completely flustered by this. Was he hallucinating? He felt very strange. This was actually the THIRD time he’d had a proposal for partnership, each man had tried to undersell the other, starting with Slugworth. It was funny in a horrible way, he supposed, the candymen weren’t that dissimilar from whores themselves. Managing to collect a conscious thought, he answered, “Mr. Prodnose *hic* I don’t celibate uh, cere-blate Christmas. A-a-and I’mmm…not *hic* lookin’ fer a partner.”
The older man’s face drew close enough for him to make out every pore and broken capillary, the rough graying five o’ clock shadow, the smell of lager and whiskey on his breath, his wild eyes. “But you need one! Everyone can see your loneliness and everyone knows why you really didn’t like the dancing girls.”
Everyone could see his loneliness?? Panic set into the chocolatier that disturbed the deepest part of his guts, enough to distract him from the second part of the statement. Why he really didn’t like the girls?? Huh? And then there it was…a pair of lips against his own.
“MmnHh.” He squirmed and resisted, but his usual strength had slipped away.
He really should find this entirely disgusting, and rest assured a part of him did, but on the other hand, there was…something. Mr. Prodnose was an ordinary man. He wasn’t faster, stronger, or more clever than other men. Nor was he rich or powerful or well connected. But there was…something. He thought. They did have passing similar interests. Maybe it would be enough, maybe it could be worked into a semblance of…more? There was more, wasn’t there? His upbringing had not assured him of this, but he’d seen it a lot. It was intangible, but desired by people even more than candy. Some went so far as to murder for it. Theoretically, it must be awfully valuable even though it was invisible and had no taste.
In the nearly black room, clinging on to him tighter, the kissing and caressing continued. Was this how it was supposed to feel? Was it supposed to feel unpleasant? What they were doing was considered forbidden and wrong by many cultures and Wonka knew it, but those notions had a habit of pulling him in rather than scaring him off. His companion was getting as worked up as a teenager during a make-out session in the backseat of a car. Willy was at a loss of what to do and kept falling deeper into a stupor. Sounds that could’ve been interpreted as protests or encouragement were all that the young man could make. His limbs became useless.
Peeking from the archway were two figures. Fickelgruber whispered first.
“Woah, look at ‘em go.”
“I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with me own two eyes.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Tsk. Can’t be worse than wot happened to your brother.”
“I keep tellin’ ya not to bring that shit up! Stay focused. We got his coat and hat. No notebooks.”
“No, and my hand still stings. Wot sort of person puts mousetraps in their coat pocket?!”
“A very smart weirdo, that’s who.”
With that last comment, Fickelgruber had finally managed to attract Prodnose’s attention, attempting to communicate with gestures that the oldest candymaker wasn’t following. Very aggravating. It didn’t matter anyway for Mr. Wonka had completely passed out in his arms. The two walked into the room, nervously looking over their shoulders. Fortunately no one was left except the staff busily cleaning up.
“Check the vest pocket.” Slugworth hissed anxiously.
Sure enough, a simple red notepad and elegant pen was discovered. Prodnose held them out feebly, continuing to cradle the unconscious man.
“What, didja forget why we sent ya here in the first place?” Fickelgruber looked at his cohort with repulsion. Was Prodnose actually enjoying this?
He averted eye contact, “C-could you fellows uh, leave us alone a few minutes longer?”
“But he’s-”
“Cheers. Let’s go. I can’t make anything out in here anyway, everything’s in code.” Slugworth cut Fickelgruber off, squinting at the pad and tugging the other candymaker’s arm out of the room.
Back at the bar, Slugworth murmured with vengeance in his tone (recalling side effects he’d suffered from things consumed) “Remember wot I put in the drink? Well uh, I put in enough of it to drug an elephant.”
Fickelgruber pulled out a cigarette flipping through the notepad, nonchalantly stating, “That could kill him, ya know.”
“Bad for business.” Snickered Slugworth. “Good for a zombie lover. Let Prodnose take the blame. Pervert. Ought to be more careful wot he prods!”
They both cracked up loudly.
Twisting the notepad left, right, upside down, elbows upon the wood, feet tapping at the brass below, neither could make sense of Wonka’s notes: lengthy chemical equations, strange symbols, impossible ingredients, ridiculous notions. Here and there was poetry, bars of music, jagged doodles. Star inside a circle, one of the only repeated images. They pondered; maybe he wasn’t simply eccentric, maybe he actually was mad? However this madman really was creating those crazy confections and their vast success was not quite real too. Puzzle inside a puzzle. Oh but they’d remember everything they saw in that little pad and they’d spend the rest of their lives trying to figure it out – so help them God.
Willy was not dead. He was flat on his stomach, face and chest pressed against firmly stuffed leather cushions. Awoken by a most unfamiliar sensation, the back of his pants being slid down. That word he’d been repeating: something. Well, something was wrong! He tried to yell. A hand wrapped tight against his mouth, pushing fingers into his mouth, swiftly silencing the sloppy utterance. He felt the heavy weight of a body from behind, heard a familiar voice with an unfamiliar sound.
“You know you want it.”
He actually had no idea what he wanted, but “it” was definitely not on the list. This was nothing like the something he’d seen other people marvel or write poetry about; one was normally conscious for that. This was rape. This was complete disregard for another person, selfish need dismantling an individual into faceless desire. And he was the victim. He was the stupid idiot who’d gotten into this position by allowing himself to be so vulnerable. That was about to change. He still had a chance to prevent a final violation.
The young man’s teeth were not only for show. They worked exquisitely, sharp and strong as ceramic knives was each, frequently making neat work and ideal digestion of his food. With them now, he bit down and cared not what got in their way; skin, fat, muscle, or bone. A following attempted scream did not belong to Wonka.
“AAa-!”
It too was swiftly silenced. Tables were literally being turned as one toppled over. Willy twisted around to face his attacker; his skin luminescent, lips a true blood red. Turning his kissing lesson into a form of attack, lips lunged against lips again causing the silence, and then pushing him backward until upright. Next straddling the hefty man’s lap, gripping the jumpsuit angrily in fists to press their faces tighter together. Acting on pure instinct, with a hidden aspect rising to protect himself, taking back the advantage. One thing was clear in his mind, he wanted NONE of what had been offered!
Prodnose was in more than one kind of shock, sensations of rubbing and twisting forcing him to climax while the violence was being committed. Slim, sleek body restraining him, proving twice as strong as his own! Willy’s mouth was wide open upon the unfinished scream, effort of prehensile tongue, and pressure upon his throat, caused the older fellow to swallow what had been severed from his own body. It left a flavor in his mouth that anyone would hope never to taste again, that instead he’d taste forever more: sweetest nectar, burning alcohol, tainted hemoglobin and shattered hope – flavor akin to death. The young man finally pulled off, panting, oddly satisfied. Purple eyes shone like jewels embedded in an ancient idol; squeezed narrow, cursing the body beneath them. No, they had never truly known each other, not what the other yearned for or what they were capable of.
Slack jawed, hand limp and profusely bleeding, Mr. Prodnose could not move, his mind and body slowly going numb. Wonka spit on the floor and wiped his mouth across a loosely hanging sleeve. Energy had been growing and created that midnight, one now being spewed back with force.
“There. Gave it all back.”
Mr. Wonka stood up, gained his balance, adjusted his trousers and wobbled out of the shadows, toward the bar where the other two were studiously hunched over.
“I. Trusted. You.”
Mr. Fickelgruber and Mr. Slugworth turned around.
The person they saw was technically Willy Wonka, but not the one they knew. He looked less human, certainly less naive. Although the young man had found his coat and top hat and put them back on, nothing was quite in place. This same statement could have been made about his general state of mind. But then, what would someone expect from a person with blood smeared all over their mouth and chest? Of course, for a “dead man” he looked amazing.
The vampire-like person before them repeats his words with leaden weight and a very human fracture of grief.
“I. Trusted. You.”
Wonka didn’t speak again for a moment. He stood motionless like a statue. More death. More people he never knew. Their faces remained stunned, unable to comprehend the value of what had been stated.
Suddenly, supernaturally fast, he reached between the two of them. Slugworth and Fickelgruber yelped and actually fell off their stools in an effort to avoid contact; a spoor of blood left behind on the bar’s surface. However, the chocolatier had meant no physical threat, he was merely retrieving the last thing stolen from him. The notepad. Tucking his mysterious collection of thoughts back into place, he spoke again and swore he’d build the biggest chocolate factory ever seen and put it right here, in the little town. They’d see. One day, they’d wake up and they’d see it every single day! If it was a challenge and competition they wanted, that was exactly what they would get!!
After which he grabbed his cane from the umbrella stand, walking confidently out of the pub, never to be seen there ever again.

Psssst! ….hssst…. 
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
Slugworth leaned glaring into the stunned Buckets’ eyes. “But *wheeze* that wasn’t true as much…of what he says isn’t. He didn’t trust us. HE…used US.”
“Yeah, so big deal. They tried to do the same thing back and it got a little outta control.” Fickelgruber Jr. said, mouth full of a cupcake (that had been made to look like a cheeseburger). Without a flicker of remorse he said, “It’s not like yer professor there wasn’t into it. So c’mon Steamboat Willy, I’ve been dyin’ to ask all these years, what do you want? Oysters or snails? Maybe shrimp?”
For the first time since the story began being told, the chocolatier looked at them. When he spoke, his voice was clear but weak, if the words had been paper they would have been crumpled.
“A friend.”
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
Psssst! ….hssst….
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
 
Could it have actually been guilt causing a lack of retort?
Looking away again, shaking his head, the tears finally fall, from each eye, one at a time. It wasn’t much except it marked the loss of a battle that Mr. Wonka had been fighting inside himself for a rather long time. What he’d never told the men was that not only had he considered them friends, but poor as it turned out, they had been his only friends. They’d never understand. They’d never care. They couldn’t see farther than over their own hideous noses. Another part of his heart had hardened on that day. After that, his investment of concern became strictly for inventing, business and his workers (who kept those things going). However, in time, their filthy hands too would ruin this.
Charlie Bucket’s face had become as difficult to read as his friend’s usually was. His initial question about why everyone couldn’t work together had been more than answered. As had his curiosity about Mr. Prodnose’s comment and missing digits! The child had absorbed the whole thing, everything that was said and much that wasn’t, scanning the men again, one by one until he reached Mr. Wonka. More dark truths behind the image resurrected. His eyes looked rather brown; maybe it was a trick of the light, but knowing the chocolatier most likely not.
Shoulders sloped the man put his head down again. A third heavy droplet of water fell. He might have finally truly surrendered but then a small and extraordinary thing happened, just like…a Bucket.
“Mr. Wonka, I brewed some hot chocolate along with the tea. You look slightly overdue for a dose.” Mrs. Bucket stood by the famous chocolatier’s side. To his amazement, she spoke as if she hadn’t lost an ounce of respect for him. He looked at her in stunned affirmation. Without touching him, she carefully placed the freshly poured cup under his nose, scent wafting upward on a whorl of steam.
He leaned in and took a sip; the rich, creamy taste of his own river nourishing body and soul. Chocolate -- the flavor of dreams.
Fate had delivered.
Mr. Prodnose spoke up again, “I say, retelling that story made me realize wot we came ‘ere for in the first place, wot we ran out of and couldn’t reproduce no matter how hard we tried. Those secret ingredients of yours.”
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
Psssst! ….hssst…. 
“Tell us William…where do you keep them?”
A beacon in the lighthouse of the candyman’s soul had been re-lit, the effect was subtle but not missed by those who cared for him. He smacked his lips, as if still overwhelmed and parched, “I believe…I need another cup of cocoa please.”
The four invaders stared impatiently as he took his time finishing it.
Satisfied, he finally spoke again, “Why I keep my secret ingredients in the Secret Ingredients Room, of course.”
Fickelgruber Jr. made a face. “Ass. We coulda figured that out for ourselves. Kinda obvious name, dontcha think? I mean, what’s tah keep anyone from finding it?”
Willy shrugged, grinning, “Nothin’ at all, I suppose.”
“No, Mr. Wonka!” Charlie exclaimed. “You can’t take them there!”
Assuming his heir was being protective and loyal, that this room was the mother load; they demanded to be taken there next!
Smiling from ear to ear, singsong tone back in his cadence, “Now, now. A deal is a deal. And I never break my promises.”
Charming and frightening as always, thought the boy.

Author’s Notes:
WORTH RESTATING: Thank you for all the feedback and friendship these years long, it is those simple things that mean so much and are the best reward I could hope for my tireless efforts.
HOWEVER! If you wish to ask a question or offer a critique, please realize how frustrating that is if there is no way to contact you (email, stories, etc) and your pen name is common as mud like a famous anime character. *cough* Certainly we fan fic authors are not perfect and certainly we grow when others question us, but I would suggest that a compliment is a nice way to balance out what you think is a mistake, when you leave a review. Thank you.
So, Yagami Raito, the answer to your question lies in religion (no, not the Church of England) as well as the fact that I've stated it costs more money to get married in England vs. the United States (via legal document). Now in fairness, I did begin this story on a whim, I was not an expert in doing such things nor did I even consider myself a writer. I would therefore ask for some leeway with a work of fiction that already has so many fantastically impossible elements already; although I do try to cover my bases (and now have a British beta). That notion was based on the fact that the Buckets wear no wedding ring and the fact that the Grandparents all have the same last name. I further wanted to highlight it since the idea of marriage is a main theme in the main romance portrayed as are concepts of "forbidden" and "royalty" (who frequently did odd things in the name of blood line).
Young Willy Wonka - this is the beautiful young man, owner of his own shop, that these ideas were weaved from.
http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/YoungWillyWonka.jpg
1/0 = “undefined” in mathematics. I reference this and other scientific terms in the description to create a complex confusion that is and is not nonsense. *ahem*
“double, double, toil and trouble” is a line from Macbeth, spoken by the 3 witches, who represent the goddesses of fate (the Moriae) from ancient Pagan eras. Shakespeare writes epic poems, often tragedy. I suppose there is a similar feeling to this project.
My German grandfather, the real life chocolatier, whom I never met but who lives on through my mother’s tales, also kept a toy train collection -- part of my inspiration came from there.
I thought it would be cool to put young Willy in the vest that Gene wore in the first adaptation, as seen here (it would look good with his eyes): http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/WWatCF-WonkaCharlie.jpg
Do parents still read their children, The Little Engine That Could? It is an old tale that dates back to the turn of the century and was published under Sunday school education actually. Which should show you the subtle ways that religions and their precepts affect our lives. This need not be negative or Christian, but many remain hidden or become warped due to our own ignorance, information lost to the passing of time within the brief span of human lives and attention spans.
“Chocolade” is the Dutch word for chocolate. “Dab hand” is British slang for someone who is very talented at something.
Sulfur and brimstone are frequently associated with things from Hell, but I personally like the odors.
The Queen Mum, HRM Queen Elizabeth II, has been an avid dog lover for her entire long life (born in 1926) and specifically keeps an entourage of corgis at her side at all times.
http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/53463765.jpg
http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/mandm.jpg
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