Disclaimer: We no own Wonka or his Oompa=loompas!

Author's Note: Sometimes you have to wonder how Willy Wonka would deal with unwanted visitors. Oh, if you think of someone you'd like to see meet an unfortunate ending in the factory, leave a note about it in the comment box. And as always, reviews (positive or negative) are always welcome.


London, England

It had been nearly a year since the great Wonka factory reopened, churning out more candies and confectionery delights than ever before. But the front gates always remained locked. No one ever went in, and no one ever came out. This troubled most people who lived in the neighborhood, who took to walking on the other side of the street when passing the forbidding factory gates. Children no longer played in front of the factory walls, having been told by their parents that the place was haunted. After all, who else could be working in the factory long after night fell? Could it be ghosts or some other kind of otherworldly beings? There was some speculation that Mr. Willy Wonka, who owned the factory, was a wizard who could run the candymaking machines in his factory using magic. Some even said he had made a compact with the devil in exchange for a successful business. The rumors, of course, were just those...rumors; though Mr. Willy Wonka was, in his own right, a magician. When it came to candy, there were no limits that he could not cross. He had no need of supernatural assistance, and had certainly not affiliated with any spiritual entity. As it later became known, his factory was run by thousands of tiny people called Oompa-loompas, who lived there with him in the factory.

Despite the rumors, there were a few people who did not see Wonka as mysterious. Sure, he was a hermit, but he was a very prosperous hermit. And prosperity meant money, which many people were eager to lay their own hands on.

It was a chance meeting, really. Bill Johnson was walking along the eastern wall of the Wonka complex when he rounded the corner, nearly crashing into the back of another man. The surprise startled him greatly, and he dropped his briefcase on the sidewalk. The other man, clad in a red and white pinstripe suit, turned when he heard the noise.

"Oh, hello sir! I didn't see you come up!" he stooped to pick up Bill's briefcase, stood up, and handed it back to its owner. "I'm Robert Shoeman, by the way." he extended a hand, and Bill shook it warmly.

"Bill Johnson."

"Ah, I've heard of you! You sell insurance, don't you?"

Bill had been smiling, but his lips straightened somewhat at the question. "Why, yes I do. How did you know?"

Robert pulled a pamphlet from the pocket of his plaid jacket. "I happen to be in the business as well. I'm not doing very well in this neighborhood, though...apparently a majority of the locals have already purchased insurance from you."

Bill nodded condescendingly. "Yes, yes...it helps to have been in the business for a few years. I assume that you've transferred into the area from another firm?"

"Why yes!" Robert looked surprised, or at least did a very good job of pretending to be surprised. "You are a smart man, Mr. Johnson. I think I could learn a lot from you."

"Well, I'd be happy to help any aspiring salesman," Bill said smoothly.

Robert smiled. "Well, I suppose you could start by telling me why you decided to come to Mr. Wonka's factory today. The man's gates have been closed for years. I myself came because I was thinking that maybe no one goes in because no one ever knocked."

Bill shrugged. "It's possible."

"Were you going to try?"

"Are you afraid to do it yourself?"

"I'll do it if neither of you will," a new voice broke in. The two insurance salesmen turned around to see another man walking toward them, towing a large, wheeled bag. Bill suppressed a derisive snort. "Who are you?"

The man walked up to them, standing his bag on end. He extended a hand, first to Bill, then to Robert. "Name's Arthur T. Wilkinson. You can call me Art."

Robert looked him up and down, noting the man's brown suit and bowtie with some scepticism. "I trust you are a door to door salesman, Mr. Wilkinson?"

"Absolutely! And I suppose I could say the same of you two...funny how all we salesmen dress in similar outfits."

Bill was scrutinizing the large bag. "What business are you in, Art? I doubt Mr. Wonka has much need for a vacuum cleaner."

Art laughed. "This is no vacuum cleaner," he said as he patted the bag. "It's an automatic shoe shiner. I've heard how peculiar the man is when it comes to his wardrobe. And when one considers how much shy he is in regard to the public eye, I'm certain he would be more than happy to pay a pretty penny to have his shoes shined without having to step foot outside just to get it done."

Bill and Robert exchanged a glance.

"How interesting," another voice said, and the three salesmen looked to the side, to see yet another man dressed in a business suit, but his was dark blue and he was wearing a regular tie instead of a bow tie. His hair was dark grey and slicked back, and his features were sharp and thin. He was carrying a manila envelope, thick with papers of some kind. Art extended a hand. "Come to join our party?"

The man ignored him. "I am George Blackwell, with the London City Bank. I am here to discuss investment policies with Mr. Wonka, in light of his recent success. Now, if none of you will approach the gate, I will. Time is wasting, and time is money."

The other three men were taken aback by this other man's cold tone, and without a word they all stepped aside to let him pass. He pressed the intercom button on the wall beside the gate.

"Who is it?" a voice crackled.

"I and three others are here to see Mr. Wonka," George said. "I think we all have something for him to consider investing in."

There was a brief pause...perhaps the speaker was conversing with his employer...then the voice came back, thick with static. "He has agreed to meet with each of you. Please progress to the main entrance."

The large, wrought-iron gates swung open of their own accord, and the four men walked in. Their shoes clicked against the cobblestone walkway, and the wheels of Art's bag clattered loudly.

"Would you mind picking that up?" George said in irritation.

Art gave him a scathing look, but he grabbed the bag by its top handle and carried it like a duffel to the massive front doors. At their approach, the doors swung open, though no one stepped out to greet them. Without breaking stride, George stepped past the threshold. The other three followed him, a bit unnerved, and the doors closed behind them.

Once inside, each of the four men looked about themselves in curiosity. Like the rest of the facility, the foyer of the main building was ever changing. At the beginning of the company, the walls had been white with lavender trim, the floors made of periwinkle tile. Now, however, the walls were periwinkle with white trim, and the floors were made of lavender tile. The room itself was a large space that reached at least a dozen feet above the heads of the visitors, and was at least several meters in length. There were a number of corridors leading out from the foyer. Each one was painted a different color, and strange smells and sounds seemed to waft out of them, beckoning the visitors to wander deeper into the building.

"I don't think I like this," Robert muttered to Bill.

Bill nodded grimly in agreement.

Art was still looking around, his eyes bright with curiosity. He threw a glance behind himself when he overheard Robert muttering, and when he turned to look back toward the center of the room, he was surprised to see something he hadn't noticed before. In the middle of the big, empty chamber, was a large circular desk. He didn't see anyone sitting at it, but there was a little placard that read INFORMATION. Beside the placard was a silver bell.

"Look at this," Art said, abandoning his bag to approach the desk. The other men noticed his movement and followed him. Art came alongside the desk...it was up to waist...and he rang the bell. The chime seemed very loud in the open space, and it echoed off the walls and down the halls. Robert flinched.

"No one home," Bill said with a shrug.

George scoffed, shifting his envelope in his arms.

"Eh-hem." someone said from below, and the four men were surprised to see a tiny man sitting behind the desk, seated on top of phonebooks that had been stacked on his chair. He held up a clipboard and pen, gesturing to a paper that said SIGN IN.

"Oh," said Bill, as he accepted the pen and wrote his signature on the top line.

"Right," said Robert, hastily scribbling his name on the second line.

"Sure," said Art, neatly printing his name on the third line.

"Typical," said George, penning his name in neat script on the fourth line. He handed the clipboard and pen to the tiny man, who accepted them with a nod.

"If you don't mind my asking," Art said to the tiny man, "how long have you worked here?"

"Five years," the tiny man said, in a voice that was deeper than his size would have suggested. "My family works here, too. We're Oompa-loompas."

"Oompa what?" Robert cried incredulously.

"Oompa-loompas!" a new voice said from somewhere, echoing. A man stepped out from one of the colored hallways, wearing the strangest outfit the visitors had ever seen. He wore a white shirt, black vest, green bowtie, black trousers, brown loafers, a plum velvet jacket, lavender gloves, and a marvelous purple top hat. He walked toward the four men, gesturing toward the tiny man. "Oompa-loompas, he said again, quieter because he was standing right in front of them. "Imported directly from Loompaland."

"There's no such place," Robert said with a short laugh.

"Are you a geographer?" Mr. Wonka asked.

"No, I'm an insurance salesman."

"Well, then you don't know what you're talking about! Loompaland does exist; I've been there myself, though unfortunately the cartographer didn't survive the expedition. But that is a different story." He smiled brightly and looked at the other men. "What may I do for you gentlemen? It isn't often I get visitors. Nobody seems to come knocking anymore."

George stepped forward. "Mr. Wonka, my name is George Blackwell, and I..."

"Want to see the factory, of course!" Willy Wonka started walking toward one of the colored hallways. George stopped him.

"Actually, Mr. Wonka, we have some matters to discuss with you. I happen to be a businessman, associated with the stock market."

"I sell insurance," Bill said.

"As do I," Robert put in, a bit loudly.

"I, um...sell innovative equipment," Art said, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment.

Willy Wonka looked at each man in succession, bouncing from foot to foot, frowning slightly as if he could not make up his mind.

"Well," he said finally, "I'm afraid I am not familiar with the stock market, nor with insurance..." he looked at Art. "and I have plenty of innovative technology of my own." He brightened suddenly. "Of course, if you take a look at my factory, then perhaps you could suggest what I need."

George nodded. "Sounds like a fair idea, Mr. Wonka. Lead on."

Willy Wonka waved for them to follow him, and he rushed away at once toward one of the corridors at the far end of the room, this one colored a cheerful yellow. The four men followed after him, though Art made sure to pick up his bag on the way. when they were all gone, the Oompa-loompa looked around warily, then picked up a phone and dialed a number within the factory. A mischievous smile came to his face as he spoke his friend who was on the other end of the line.

"Guess what? Mr. Wonka has guests..."