Author's note: OK, last chapter with pre-prepared dialogue…eep…I say that a lot, don't I? Ah well, here we go. The consequences of Mike's actions catch up on him.

16

"Help me!" Mike yelled (squeaked) a bit more urgently. He felt a weird pressure at the nape of his neck and flung his hands over his head protectively, just in case it was another deranged Oompa-Loompa.
He had never been so pleased to see his dad.
"Oh thank heavens," Mike turned to look at Wonka who was speaking very forcedly and also leaning away slightly, "He's completely unharmed."
"Unharmed?" Mr Teavee asked incredulously, saving Mike the bother, "What are you talking about?"
He turned to look at his dad, expecting a sympathetic face and an assurance that it would all be OK. It never came. He only received a look of utmost fear before he was brought down to rest in his father's palm.
Well, Mike thought, time for Plan B…
"Just put me back through the other way!"
He cringed inwardly at his embarrassing, squeaky voice, but kept a cool and strong persona on the outside – despite seeing Scruffy visibly laugh at him. Well, he thought he saw Scruffy laugh at him. It was possibly – in fact, probably – a trick his mind was playing on him. And it was possible – in fact, almost certain – that his mind would keep playing those tricks until he got himself back to normal. If he ever did.
"There is no other way," Wonka explained, almost gently.
Mike opened his mouth to scream "WHAT", but decided that squeaking wasn't the best plan of action here.
Wonka continued, not quite so gently, "It's television, not telephone. There's quite a difference."
Then, in a tone that Mike's father so rarely used it actually scared Mike a little to hear him speak that way, "And what exactly do you propose to do about it?"
"I don't know," Wonka stated.
Mike gave a start. Had he been wrong about Wonka? All the other kids had had some kind of back-up plan to put them back to how they were – why didn't he? Was it because everything that had happened truly was a coincidence? Or did Wonka not expect Mike to fall for it? Or was it because he just didn't like Mike? Whatever the reason, he hoped a solution was thought of soon – he couldn't go back home in the condition he was in. he just couldn't.
Although…

Being poked in a vat of chocolate…being squeezed of juice…landing in a pile of garbage…
Mike could only assume his fate would be of a similar calibre. And that wasn't good. Maybe it wasn't so bad being shrunk. After all, his parents certainly wouldn't let him go out in that state. Not to go to boring school, or boring church, or the boring shopping mall. No, he would just stay at home all day and watch television. At least that privilege had not been denied him. So long as he could face a television after what it just did to him.
No. Everything would be alright.
"But young men are extremely springy, they stretch like mad."
Wonka gasped as though a eureka-style idea had just hit him.
Oh God, here we go…
"Let's go put him in the taffy puller!"
Taffy puller…?
"Taffy puller?"
Not being well-versed in the ways and means of candy, Mike didn't know what a taffy-puller was exactly, although he had a fair idea, and his father's tone reinforced that theory.
"Hey, that was my idea," Wonka said childishly. Mike narrowed his eyes, although no one could see it through those damn goggles.
"Boy is he gonna be skinny," Wonka said (struggling to keep a smirk off his face, Mike noted), "Yeah…" Mike looked at his dad for some sort of explanation, but he looked just as bemused as Mike felt, "Taffy puller…"
There was a buzzing silence. Mike swore he could actually feel atoms brushing past him. Wonka finally turned to the Oompa-Loompa on the white chair.
"I want you to take Mr Teavee and his…"
He looked over at Mike who glared at him sharply.
Careful, freak…
"…li'l…boy…" he stuttered, "Up to the taffy-puller, kay? Stretch him out!"
There was a short pause where, presumably, the Oompa-Loompa gave some sort of signal to his dad. At a clear loss of ideas for anything else to do, he simply turned, Mike in hand, and followed the midget out of the room. The last Mike saw of Wonka that day was jumping away from him with a scared gasp. That made Mike feel a bit better; even if he was tiny and dangling precariously from his father's fingers, he still imposed some sort of fear in Wonka. It was a small boon, but a satisfactory one.
"On with the tour?" he heard Wonka's voice fade away as his father strode down the corridor, apparently having surprising difficulty keeping up with the Oompa-Loompa in front of him.
Mike swallowed as he realised something: it was all over. His time at the factory had come to an end.

He was a loser.