DISCLAIMER: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I'm BACKKKKK!!!!!!!! Moreover, what the hell have I been up to the past months or so?!?!?!? Well, you ain't gonna know, know why?!??! Well, you won't know that either. However, a lot has happened in my absence. Recently the death of the beloved King of Pop and I'd just like to say May Michael Jackson Rest in Peace; lord knows he will be missed because now he's in that Never-Neverland in the sky. Second: Billy Mays, whom I feel was killed by that new Shamwow guy who was I heard on The Soup beat up a hooker - no comment…biznitch you deserve it!! Huh, almost lost my cool there. Thirdly: It's summer and I'm bored. Fourth: I feel as though people tend to die a lot in the summer, which is supposed to be the happiest time, which I guess is still happy now considering that those who've passed on are now in a happier, better place so… - oh yeah, guess who didn't get left back?!?! MEEE!! I am moving up in the next grade!!!! YAHHHHHHH! Thank you, no, please, hold your applause, hey, you, in the blue, you better stand up and clap yo hands, fool. Anyway, on with the show.

BTW: Thank you for the people who reviewed this story, I love you all, and if you do not understand any slang of Britain please go to .org/wiki/List_of_British_words_not_widely_used_in_the_United_States.

BTW2: See this symbol ©? That means that I own Alison "Sonny" Salt and any other characters you do not remember or even existed in the original work of Roald Dahl.

Chapter Ten

When Sonny Salt was called a chocoholic by Tory after telling her how she loved Wonka chocolate, she was still acting like an English prude round the easygoing blond, so obviously the thought that she took it well would be an over exaggerated understatement. In fact you would've found it hilarious the way she was fuming internally that I would have sworn that she was practically boiling over, pulling her shirt collar to let in some air, wondering whether or not she should just go off on the blonde or remain silent and try to comprehend the blonde's almost incoherent ramblings about what she liked. (Oh, believe it, Sonny really was a prude back then.)

It's understandable because usually when you are called a -holic anything, I won't lie and say that I wouldn't freak out and try to resist the need to strangle whoever said that and made such an assumption while most likely going into denial about what I was addicted to. Then again, this is not about me, it is about Sonny.

Still, when you're called that and you happen to be a gentlefolk, bluntly speaking it isn't the best of things; why, in fact, it is downright terrible because you get kicked out golfing clubs till you have either cured your addiction or manage to sly your way in, whichever comes first. Or, in the case of younger gentlefolk, you might be reduced to tears at the sniggers of gossip from the girls in Chanel swimsuits sitting by the pool, whispering about how much your figure has changed or how you looked. It is a dreadful thought, by simple terms.

The blonde Smeath girl was not budging, her flightiness yet to kick in. This was budding behavior, both of an actress in the making and the best friend you could ever have. With her arms over her thrown-back head, snug on the hammock, she popped open one eye, twinkling.

"I say it's a good thing," she said. "You're super fudge, love, to something that's all your own. Your Jack Daniels. Your Paris to Nicole. Your Taco to your Chihuahua. Your exact type of heroin." You can also imagine how Sonny felt at that one, now she's practically saying I do smack. "I'm positive it's a good thing, a lucky one who is able to find what they love so easily and still able to let the goodness of this world shine through. You're one of the lucky few. The few. The proud. The marines. Kudos to a water reference seeing as you're now treading water instead of sinking in it." Tory, never the poet, but is able to say one thing in a million ways; to her, repeating things the same way is stupid.

But you just had to believe how much faith Sonny was putting into that girl's words, because even she couldn't believe herself when she resisted smacking her friend across the forehead with her dangling foot and instead rolling her eyes. Tory sat up slightly, "Obviously everybuggy is drawn to Wonka's chocolates for many reasons, but I think you kept coming back for more than the sensation. And, as a chonus, you're one of the better looking ones who are chocoholics. If you catch my drift," Tory held out stretched open her arms, as if asking for a hug, to symbolize the size of some of those hardcore Wonkaholics.

Tory's right, Sonny thought, squirming round. Something has been keeping her coming back for years now; it was something that she couldn't get at home, where her father was too busy to lift her onto his knee and tell her tales of the mysterious man who created the best candy and sugary treats in the world, where her mother was too hangover to talk about unmeltable ice cream, gum that never lost its flavor, and of chocolate birds that moved and sang like the real thing. The kind of feeling that some things in the world, like working and being an adult weren't as important as just sitting back and watching the clouds of chocolate roll by, just inhaling the air and living your life.

So live your life (Hey, ayy, ayy, ayy)…

Huh? Now, correct me if I'm mistaken, but how exactly did Rihanna get involved into this story? Not saying that Sonny wasn't a fan of her, of course, she had her pick of American singers and needless to see that she was one of her favorites. Not only was it rather odd that Rihanna was telling her to live her life, but why she was coming to Sonny in her…sleep, was it?

You steady chasin' that paper - Just live your life…

OK, now it's getting kind of repetitive… Sonny had that same feeling I think the rest of us get in the morning, when you're just starting to gain some conscious if you tend to be a heavy sleeper like she had slept through the Cold War, but Sonny was a champion sleeper. Am I squinting? It didn't feel like it to her. God, do I have dejabrew? Sonny should have known that if she was drinking an excessive amount the previous night that it still wouldn't have this kind of effect on her, unless she ended doing something embarrassing, but no, she almost couldn't feel her eyes.

Ugh, my mouth tastes stale, it had a kind of fuzzy and squalidly, making her wonder if she had failed to brush her teeth last night. More importantly, was it even morning? If it was, would someone send one of the maids for her if she was late for breakfast? What did eating food having anything to do with the fact that her vision, by the by, was almost like a busted flashlight was flickering back and forth to what she was sure what bright, white light and total oblivion.

She heard Rihanna again, and then someone else, a voice. Atypical and high-pitched, with what seemed like a drizzle of smug and improbable self-indulgence, all silvery. It was coming in and out of her ears:

In. "Yeah…" Out.

In. "Sorry…I was a bit preoccupied…" Out.

In. "You can't expect me to pick up on the first ring…" Out.

In. "It's common courtesy, it seems a too little perky to pick up so quickly like you were just sitting there in the dark waiting for that call…" Out.

In. "Oh, come on, like, like, one time but only because I was worried…" Out.

In. "What do you mean you feel Rihanna's overreacted…?" Out.

In. "I live my life just fine…" Out.

In. "Well, it's better than Randall's; I got him some oldies…" Out.

In. "No I won't change it…." Out.

In. "Why would I want to hear Earth, Wind, & Fire when you call…?" Out.

In. "I'm not saying I don't enjoy your calls…" Out.

In. "No, already, anyway, like I said, preoccupied but I'm still on track…" Out.

In. "What do you mean you didn't think this wasn't a plan…?" Out.

In. "Oh, yeah, I enjoy pulling a B&E and it's my pastime…" Out. "Priorities. I've got priorities…"

The voice stopped mid-sentence, mouth still agape as he was speaking into something pressed into his ear - a mobile phone? - as his eyes ran over what was still wrapped in what looked, well, I'd rather not say because this is technically a children's story, though I do suppose we crossed the line when our chocolatier broke and entered.

From how she seemed to be having a hard time fully coming back to the room, it was obvious that her sides were aching, and from how lighter her eyes were looking it seemed that the dose what he had given her had worked to some extent. However let's not tell Sonny that until we've gotten back into her mind.

Speaking of which, she looked disoriented. Gadzooks, I'm sure she feels like a boulder has been dropped on her, he thought. Almost like a paper doll, maybe even dropping a pebble on her shoulder might cause her to collapse. And he was right; the girl looked like neither a mental nor conscious bearing of her surroundings. Like a confused cat, though I haven't ever heard of a confused cat much less a curious one.

What he said about her seemingly not having a mental nor conscious bearing of her surroundings was true…for the next few seconds. Then, with sand in her eyes, she remembered what has happened and realized her surroundings the same way you don't decide to never go back to McDonalds just because they forgot your fries.

She adjusted her sight and she saw the events of the previous night again.

Now, for the sake of the silence, I suppose I should do a recapitulation of what happened only a few hours ago. As you all recall someone broke and entered and then someone was knocked temporarily unconscious, now of course she's awake. You'd think what knocked her out would have lasted much longer, but then again you do not know how much time has passed and what has happened in that time.

"Mr. Wonka," Sonny was raised to regain her composure rather quickly. She didn't sound the least bit mad, but not necessarily happy to see him either.

In fact, as he lowered the phone from his ear, he did a double-take of her. Her eyes were coming back to lightness and there was some kind of glint that was perhaps sinister anger or something else, he wasn't sure what that was but it didn't sound too good.

He had taken off his jacket, to reveal a periwinkle button-down with the same W right at his neck. He could feel himself burning up, the room already hot enough, but Sonny seemed to be pushing off her so-far negative energy of the situation and now he was suffering from a heat-stroke. He swallowed.

Did you know that when people are stuck in a life-threatening or impossible situation with no realistic plausible means of escape (much like now) they sometimes ask themselves what would So-and-so do? Well, in this case, even Mr. Wonka was asking himself that - what, by all means, would Willy Wonka do?

"H-How do you do?" That was a bland finish. He could only see what would happen next, but with panic overwhelming and the heat and the obvious look on Sonny's face (which will be left for you to imagine) what other choice did have but to try a paradigmatic mean of greeting?

Sonny made her next sentence sound like something a demented person might say. One that overly too happy. "Oh, simply marvelous! Except for harboring a criminal in the area like this - direful, chancy gist, wouldn't one so say?" Her enlivenment was frightening synthetic. And it wasn't hard to miss that she had just practically called him a criminal and that being in the same breathing space as him is dangerous. It isn't as though I'm a diseased dog, he thought sourly.

By all means, though, Sonny was the one who seemed to be giving off broodiness.

"Which reminds me," his head almost snapped at the suddenness which her voice had started up again, "because it is obvious that weren't dragged here, then, pray tell, you must have had a reason for coming despite the fact that it is clear that you aren't wanted, yes?" Her feigned innocence was saccharine all over, and very menacing.

He was panicked, only able to expose some of his flawless, blindingly alabaster teeth in some attempt to smile, although what he was wearing looked similar to the same look on his face when that Beauregarde girl was turning blue.

He took a deep breath. "Because," he tugged softly on the collar of his shirt, "I wanted to see you, I believe we had established that earlier on -"

"And you probably insisted that I'd be taken along the ride, eh?" She was tilting her head, cocking a brow, as if challenging him to say more. Daring him to say more.

Sonny blinked, taking in her surroundings, now realizing that they weren't as bright as before. It was almost dim, more like it. If she'd give the chocolatier a chance to explain she would have realized, and by that second she did, that she was still in her room. She hadn't even left the Salt residence.

That's right. All this was happening in her own room, although personally I'm wondering why she hasn't looked up and saw that her diamond-speckled sky was a huge hint. Nevertheless, moving along, Mr. Wonka was saying in a placating tone:

"Well, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have come. You see, I've got other important things to do." Even I, the narrator, doubted that what he had to do back at the factory wasn't that important. "You know, back at the factory, by the by. Ergo, my famous, unsurpassed-chocolate-in-the-whole-universe propagating factory."

Such a berk, she thought with her eyes rolling all the way up to the diamond-speckled ceiling. She blinked when he said, "And if you need a vacation from my candy so badly, why don't you take one?" He went on. "As a matter of fact, it's not as if you can't afford to just take a vacation."

"Sadly my own important things to do need to be taken care of, thank you very much. Your cark is stirring." She gave an artificial, contemptuous smile.

Mr. Wonka looked down at his mobile, which was still flipped open and between his fingers gingerly though he barely heard any Loompish on the other line. He had been trapped in this room with her for maybe over more than the time he had climbed through the window of the kitchen, three hours at best, max. he didn't mean for it to play out like this, though, because while he was practically cheerily popping along with Sonny - still unconscious and unfazed by his Beatles ringtone for Wendell - thrown over his shoulder like a bag his smile of accomplishment froze when he heard someone else - presumably a maid - enter the kitchen before him and in a moment of silent yelping, managed to back up the stairs to her room. After violently texting a message of assistance to Wendell and forgetting to pick up the first few nine times he was speaking with him right about when the eldest salt child had woken up.

To say it's been a long time for him would have been an understatement, sort of like saying that Pattie Heart just helped her kidnappers rob a bank, that's all. Or like saying that The Joker only blow up Gotham General, no biggie.

He counted in his head, slowly. He was going have to start simple now, if it meant he could get out of this house.

Honestly what is going inside sonny's head has many words that even I don't know, and mind you, I was in narrating college for four years and I even got my LPN making me a licensed practical nurse for two years and I still wouldn't able to describe the thoughts running along her head. And just to bring this to your attention, it's obvious that Sonny isn't an angry girl but because she's mousy and tends to keep her emotions all bottled up she might end up spitting up blood because all of that quietness and not saying your feelings takes out on a lot on the psyche. She could be having a breakdown for all we know.

But she did look up, reluctantly, when Mr. Wonka begins, candidly, "a vacation would prove to be a very sensible choice on your part right about now." He agreed, silent for a few seconds before looking up and smiling widely. "So would you like to come back with me to the factory?"

He must be joking, was all Sonny was thinking, one of her comprehendible thoughts in what has felt like a long while. Though Sonny, like me, avoids the topic of being another she - along with Tory - still had her boundaries and rules and considering that when she's away from Buckinghamshire she becomes the type of girl who has dumped petrol Slurpees and beers down on guys for something as simple as brushing against her at clubs or doing and/or saying something disrespectful to her. I'm acting like an ignoramus. As if no man has ever given her the offer of coming home with him, much less disrespect her and then get something shapeless and cold down their back, but without a response she was staring past everything else, searching for an excuse.

"You…you're asking me to come back with you to factory?" She was cocking her brows, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Yep!"

"…are you CRAZY?" She could almost feel her eyes shrink at the thought.

"Yep!"

I hardly know him, she was thinking that if by chance a policeman asked her to confirm the criminal in a line and they happened to asking her to do that with Mr. Wonka happened to be there she'd purposefully say that she's never seen before her in her life. But brusquely he was placing her in high regard? But after what happened and all that she had gone through, the grieving if you could call it that, and throwing little sisters down rubbish bins…no, I don't think I'm ready to avow him, in spite of everything…

"No." Reaching beside her, she tucked her comforter under her arms and looked over to see that underneath her pillow a corner of her book was sticking out. Picking up, she opened it and started on her kept page. It was The Four Keys.

He was putting on his jacket with a wide smile as he pulled his arms through, adjusting the collar. "Splendid! I just knew it would strike your fa -" he froze upon realizing her answer, pulling back from reaching for his cane and inside now, for some reason, with one flogged hand in the outside pocket of his jacket he was starting to finger something there.

"…wait. NO?" He felt like he needed her to reiterate. He opened his mouth again, but no sound came out.

With her eyes closed now, Sonny didn't want to explain but the sooner she could get back to her book. "I don't like you. In fact, I don't think I can stand you. I'd rather be in the company of a rabid grizzly bear, to be perfectly blunt." She swung a large chunk of hair over her shoulder.

He slumped his shoulders, try the bashful boy act! The Buckets love that! His violet eyes doubled to the size of what could have been called Angelic Eyes or, more commonly, The Wounded Puppy Dog Look. And believe me, he was wounded. But he was yet to let his pride be KO'd. "But…but I -"

"No buts. Now leave me be."

Plan B! Plan B! He reached into his pocket and, surprisingly, pulled out a small bouquet wrapped up protectively in a white wrap, leaning out towards Sonny who looked up when he said, "Well…will you at least accept these flowers?"

Sonny put her book on her lap, leaning one elbow on it as she sighed, exasperated, tired, as she made a reach for the flowers. "Oh very well. But nothing more." It wasn't as though she hadn't received flowers before, many of the boys she had the misfortunate of seeing when she was to forced along to Bailey's Avery often turned out to be in cahoots with Mr. salt - but then again all rich people are connected in one way or another - and when they realize that she's just a phone call away they send her fields and barrels of all types of flowers: morning glories, petunias, roses, hyacinths, goldenrods, poppies and such. Usually she'd kept them alive and fed while throwing out their messages and greeting cards.

She glanced at the flowers. Immediately assailed by the scent, almost intoxicating but not at all overwhelming, the balance of the different fragrances was subtle and flawless; it looked orange blossoms…lilacs…freesia and maybe some roses. And then she heard a gasp! and she found herself doing a double-take as the flowers, all in a disarray looked at her with a horrified look and then actually proceeded to shriek in what sounded like high-pitched, miniature voices that kind of reminded her of Alvin and the Chipmunks, though they were much nicer:

"My goodness!"

"OH NO IT'S A WEED!"

"Oh, she's hideous!"

"Run!"

With the shocked look passing over as her eyebrows wiggled at their comment, she lowered them and gnawing on the inside of her cheek she narrowed her eyes as if say, 'is this what you find funny?' she was not fazed that Mr. Wonka could make flowers talk, much less insult her. Just about ready to throw them at him, the flowers released a pink gas and when she coughed, she was out.