Beginning at the Beginning

In Which A First-Person Narrative Is Commenced

I'm sure you know the story. Its been repeatedly told; and there are only so many variations one can handle before it gets old. But never before has it been thus related, with words from myself, your host, the Chocolatier of the Year, the Cream of the Crop, an advocate of truth, love, beauty, retrospective dentistry, and stripy things. Sweet things of all shapes and sizes and textures and taste and looks and intelligence spill from my fantastic mind, for I am not prejudiced, and you'll find I never forget anything, except for sometimes when it simply cannot be helped, such as when I've got too much in my brain and something gets pushed out, or when I wasn't paying enough attention in the first place.

See, this is the truth of it, as best as I can recall.

I was in the Inventing Room one day when I suddenly thought how wonderful, how truly amazing, it would be to have an intelligent someone come to the factory to live with me and help me make the world's best candy. Yes, I was doing this already, but the process was largely gone through alone; even the Oompa Loompas backed off when I started inventing things. I suppose I've experimented on them a few times too many, and rather a lot of their number suffer as a consequence. So, whilst chewing the taffy that is supposedly strong enough to stick your little brother to the ceiling with it while not sticking your teeth together, I got to thinking. And chewing. A lot.

First I worried a little about what would happen if the mixture wasn't quite right yet and I did indeed get my teeth stuck together. Would I have to have surgery? I can't stand needles. I like pointy objects in general, but needles just make me shiver. And when you're about to be stuck by a needle, shivering is not a good thing to do. Trust me. I know.

Then I thought about the possibility of making some sort of candy that bounces off the walls and floors or even off your older sister's forehead. Perhaps with some kind of homing device that would make it go back to its owner. If it comes to that, why not a candy boomerang? Wonderful to throw at people and then it would come back and you could hide it and say, "Who me?" And if we're going to go in for candy weapons, why not a candy black-jack? A candy cosh? A candy machine gun?

Oooh, candy machine gun— yeah—

I drifted into silence at this point, for, yes, I had been talking out loud. I find it useful to tell myself things. I like to keep myself educated and up on all recent events.

Then, suddenly, my thoughts took an abrupt turn and I found myself remembering the day before, when I'd had an important epiphany. It took a while to recall exactly what it was. Something about hair. And children.

With a snap of my fingers, I leapt up from my chair, only to discover that I hadn't been sitting. Slightly off balance, I stepped backwards to lean against a wall, eyes aglow with my sudden remembrance.

"That's it!" I cried. "It was during the haircut, and there was a grey hair! I knew as I saw it that I was getting older and needed to find someone to take over from me, someone to help me in my dotage, someone to dote on my in my helplessness, someone to watch over me, touched by an angel and flying free! I need, in short, an heir!"

The Oompa Loompas made noise like lightning striking dramatically at this point. They're very observant of their cues.

I stood tall, my eyes alight with a feverish glow, my hair whipping around me (as I stood in front of a very convenient fan), and the light shining off my teeth, which were bared in a grin. I love it when I can remember things that I want to remember. It just makes me feel so darn accomplished.

"Or," I said, another thought striking me suddenly, "I could just dye my hair and deny it all."

I glanced over towards the assembled Oompa Loompas, who looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Oh, what do you know," I said shortly, and sat back down in the chair which I had forgotten wasn't there. I sat back down, in fact, on the floor. Folding my arms defiantly, I stared at the wall. "You know," I went on, "its entirely possible that I would enjoy someone being here with me—" I stopped as I couldn't help curling my lip in disgust. Clearly, even I didn't believe what I was saying. And since I was the one I was trying to convince, obviously I had failed. It all seemed so pointless.

"It all seems so— pointless," I said, listlessly. The Oompa Loompas murmured amongst themselves and looked at me with worried, identical faces. I looked back at them and pushed the brim of my hat back up off my forehead.

"You're right," I sighed. "And when you're right, you're abominably right."

I shall blame it forever on the Oompa Loompas that they didn't talk me out of the Golden Ticket plan. It was not one of my brightest ideas. I should have called in an expert. I should have asked adults to come to the factory; not parents, either. Normal, sane adults. But no, I ended up with five children on the way. I suppose in the end that it was because I thought children would be bright, imaginative, innovative, useful, exploitable. Perhaps I was thinking along the lines that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. At least, that's what they tell me. I've never had an old dog, so I couldn't say. Perhaps I should have just skipped the children entirely and just gotten myself a nice quiet pet.

I may never fully understand my motivation for anything.

Somehow, this is almost a comfort.

February the first dawned bright and clear, so much so that I had to shut my eyes and go back to sleep for another few hours. Such a hardship.

However, I did get myself up in time to meet the finders of the golden tickets. Punctuality is everything to a man like me. Well, not so much everything, perhaps, but certainly of paramount importance. After all, to run late could easily lead to disaster. Suppose you were behind time for a meeting, missed a train and was run over by it instead? Suppose you were five minutes late for a school reunion and got hit by a runaway space rocket? Such things have been known to happen. This is why I would warn anyone to take care that they are always exactly on time; not early, not late. Sharp.

Ten AM sharp was when the gates swung open, and I called for the visitors to enter. They were a most unprepossessing group. I didn't much like their clothes at all, they had very little sense of style and absolutely no flair. On top of which they looked quite sulky and ill-at-ease. And the children were even worse. Bug-eyed, flat-footed, ugly and peeved. I immediately changed my mind about the whole thing, but by that point they'd already entered the factory gates, and short of rushing out there waving my cane at them and spouting death threats, there was no way of dissuading them from the operation.

So I said, into the loudspeaker, "Close the gates."

They kept walking. Completely ignored me.

"Close the gates!" I repeated deliberately.

A few of them glanced around in confusion, but none of them stopped walking.

"Hey!" I said. "I'm talking to you! Close— the— gates!"

They stood dumbfounded for a moment before a few scurried to obey. Clearly they were somewhat unnerved by the whole disembodied-booming-voice-yelling-at-them thing.

I smiled slightly.

Good.

We were off to a good start.

They continued on up to the front doors, and I dropped the confetti, interspersed with candy rats, on their heads. Guaranteed to get a shriek or two.

The shrieks duly gotten from the few young women in the group, I was content to allow them to behold the wonder that was my Welcome Song. There was also a Welcome Mat, though they seemed less impressed with that. However, as they watched the madly whirling puppets go through their musical number, there were definitely a few awed gapes in the audience. I couldn't help but giggle slightly at the expressions on their faces. They looked as though they'd never seen huge dolls burst into flame before.

I said as much.

"You all look as though you've never seen huge dolls burst into flame before," I said.

They all swung round to look at me, looking slightly peeved. "Who're you?" asked one of the girls.

This was an unexpected question, and I wasn't at all sure how to answer it. I glanced around, patted my pockets, looked up at the sky seeking an answer from heaven; and finally remembered that I'd written everything down on my arm. Quickly I hiked up my sleeve.

"Greetings," I read aloud from my skin. "I'm Willy Wanka."

There was silence from them except for the obnoxious sound of obscenely loud gum chewing from the small blond creature.

"Are you sure?" questioned the woman she was with.

I shrugged. "Reasonably," I said. "Although the ink is somewhat smudged. Shall we abandon the world to its fate and meet our maker?" They all gave me bemused stares. "Or should we— just get on with the tour, then," I faltered, lip curling in the face of their confusion. It suddenly struck me that I was standing in front of a group of people— not inventions, not ingredients— people. More people than I'd been around in years.

"Oh dear," I said, turned and went into the factory; if truth be told, not actually caring if they followed me or not.

They did, however, and were standing staring at me with these awful questioning faces as soon as I turned around.

I grimaced at the sight of them and turned to face forward once more, making a mental note not to let the Oompa Loompas talk me into anything ever, ever again.

A/N: Its surprisingly difficult to write for Wonka. One would think that after spending the last six months trying to get into the Phantom of the Opera's head that he'd be a piece of cake. But he's not. Unless we're talking fruitcake. Which he is. But I digress. A lot, and often. Oh well, just bear with me, is what I'm saying. I'm going to be gone for a little while but I'll update when I get back in a little over a week. I've read some of the fanfiction for this category and I think I can safely say that what I'm planning has not been done, or even attempted. Does this make me unique or just foolish, I wonder—