Author's Note: Wow. This chapter's a tad short. Oh well! Thank you all for reviewing. You keep me from going insane… that is, insane-er. REVIEWS!
To angil: Darling dearest, have you taken your medicine today? You may have some of mine if you like. Or you may have some of Sarah's, she's not using it. (Sarah curls up in dark corner.) I like peanut-butter banana sandwiches. Those are scrum-diddly-umptious!
To ILoveLock: Poor dear. I know exactly what your going through. No fear! We are all clinically insane in this story here! Ooooh… that rhymes… 0.0
To Moonjava: What a lovely penname! And thank you for the compliment. I hope to see more of your reviews. Believe me, I need them. I'm just pathetic like that. :)
To Cheorl: Really! Did you know that purple camels spit out blue raspberry-flavored daiquiri? And I'm glad I didn't offend you on you review site. I just wanted to make sure. Politeness counts- even when you're an anonymous fanfiction author. Don't worry about Sarah. She'll get her dose of colors pretty soon. Fwhahaha! By the way, I do hope you will update Tangled Web sometime. You're leaving the rest of your faithful readers hanging! BAD! Please update right after you go buy a ticket to Corpse Bride because yes, it is that good!
WARNING: Mild seventies references at end of chapter.
"What's wrong now?" Charlie stared with his boss at the machine gone haywire.
"I don't know what's going on. It's spitting out weird clumps of blueberry-flavored something… with a hint of mocha."
"Blueberry and mocha?" Charlie took a piece of candy quizzically, and put it in his mouth.
"Yup." The machine started to make a high humming noise. He stepped a couple long paces back automatically. After so many years of being with these little babies, he was apprehensive of bad and good sounds machines make. "Better step away, that whistling sound doesn't appear to be-"
Suddenly, the humming noise became a high screech. Purple liquid spewed out of cracks in the machine. Charlie was too slow in his reaction to dive away from a squirt of purple goop. Right in his face.
"Grrrrggglllbbbub…" he chocked, falling back. One Oompa-Loompa went to seal the cracks; another went to aid the poor boy, who had briefly lost consciousness from the fall. One Oompa-Loompa whose name was Joe was preparing to perform CPR when Charlie snapped awake. Thankfully. "It's alright," he chided at the swarming midget workers. "Don't worry about me. Work on fixing the machine."
"Did it taste good?" Wonka asked promptly.
"What?" Charlie was trying to wipe himself off.
"The candy. Was it delicious?" Wonka's lavender eyes sparkled.
"I'm fine, thank you for asking. No broken bones or anything. It tasted good. Like everything else in the factory." Charlie sighed.
"Oh. Thank you." Wonka flashed a blinding white smile. "Oh, dear. That purple doesn't want to come off, does it?"
"Mum's going to kill me for ruining my clothes," Charlie sighed.
"I think she'll be a bit more worried about your skin."
"What?" Charlie's brown eyes widened. He was having flashbacks of Violet Beauregard's horrifying experience. Drat.
"Your skin, my dear boy. It's as purple as the finely-tailored suit I'm wearing now." Wonka snapped his fingers, and an Oompa-Loompa brought a mirror. Charlie stared at his reflection in terror. His skin was a blotchy purple color. Willy was right. It matched his suit perfectly. "Wha… wha… wha…." He stuttered.
"I must say, purple compliments you wonderfully. What a delightful violet!" he smiled. It was true. Purple was a good color on Charlie. Wonka made a mental note to ask one of the Oompa-Loompa tailors to fix a purple suit up for his strapping young heir to the chocolate throne. In case of business-meeting emergencies and such.
"Wha… wha… wha… wha…" Charlie continued to stammer. He had apparently forgotten his excellent high-school vocabulary. What would he do at school? Skip for a few days? How long would this face condition last? What if there were other awful side-affects? What if he turned into a Wangdoodle? What would Chelsea say tomorrow at school? He gasped. What would Chelsea say tomorrow at school?
The elder chocolatier was concerned now. "Now Charlie, my boy, I don't much about hyperventilating, but I think you should slow down your breathing…"
Charlie didn't hear him. The Oompa-Loompas' visage seemed to warp, and double. Wait… did they double? Charlie could never tell- they were all so identically confusing. Willy's voice seemed far off. Charlie's knees buckled, as his eyes began to swim in a see of dreadful, dark, blueberry-mocha purple. Then… black.
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
"Charlie. Chaaaaarlie." A soft voice called. Charlie stirred. "Don't get up," the voice was soothing. Charlie didn't open his eyes.
"Am I dead?" he mumbled.
"No. You're fine. Except for your interesting color. It compliments your hair."
"Thanks. I've been told that recently. Are you my conscience?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"No, you silly ninny-wit! Open your eyes."
Charlie opened them to stare into deep brown eyes and black pupils such as his own. "Oh. Hey Aunt Sarah."
"You thought I was your conscience?"
"No. Well, sort of. It's a long story."
"Does it involve your employer?"
"Yes, actually. How did you know?"
"I just guessed. Crazy people have a lot in common." She sat back and smiled. Charlie sat up.
"Where is everyone?"
"I'm sorry to say that they've all decided to book a flight to Tahiti without you. I volunteered to stay here to keep you from going mad."
"You're pulling my leg again, Auntie."
"Don't auntie me. I'm being serious. My hair gets extraordinarily frizzy in humid climates such as Tahiti's. You think it's bad now, just see it in the tropics. It blows up like an afro. I look like something from the Commodores in the 70s. Lionel Ritchie, I think."
"You're a bad liar, Aunt Sarah," Charlie gave his aunt a hug.
"I know I am. Your mother's fetching a doctor, your father is still working, your grandparents are sleeping… again… and your boss is outside having a nervous breakdown."
"That's normal." Charlie didn't suppose Sarah knew about Willy's psychotic tendencies.
"I don't think so. I know about nervous breakdowns. I think he's having one." Sarah peeked outside of a curtain. Charlie caught a glimpse of a purple figure curled up in the fetal position, Oompa-Loompas standing calmly around him, one Oompa-Loompa that Charlie supposed was one of the secretaries was stroking his shoulder. Willy seemed to stop twitching for a moment. Charlie shrugged. Maybe his aunt did know something about psychotic tendencies after all.
"I'll go out and see him." Charlie sighed, getting up.
"Oh drat," his aunt said. "I've got that stupid Commodores song stuck in my head again."
"Which one?"
"Brick house," And with that, she began to do the Hustle, a popular dance in the 70s, to the song in her head.
Charlie grinned. There are a lucky number of children who are blessed with relatives known as 'cool aunts.' These savvy sisters of the kid's mother or father are the height of fashion, wit, knowledge, anything like that. You go to a cool aunt to shop for a dress to a party. Your cool aunt is the one who does most of the planning for your sweet sixteen. You know, cool aunts- the most awesome mentors in history. Sarah Bucket, in the opinion of many others, was not in any way counted as "cool," but rather, "clinically insane." But she was good enough for Charlie. And that's what made her feel… well, not what everyone said she was.
With that sappy character analyzation over with, the aunt and nephew did the Hustle out of the room to the inaudible tune of Lionel Ritchie's popular song.
