Author's note: I actually cringed at this chapter, and I came to the conclusion that I never EVER want to be stretched in a taffy puller.

17

Mr Teavee lost count of the number of times Mike swore or cursed; if he'd kept going, he would have known it amounted to exactly eight hundred and forty seven times. Mr Teavee wasn't sick enough to count how many times Mike screamed in agony; if he had, he would have known it was too many times too count.

A number of thoughts were swimming through Mike's brain, but he didn't realise that. The only thought that was properly registering was "OH MY GOD, I'M GOING TO DIE FROM THE PAIN!". He caught a glimpse of the Oompa-Loompa who was manning the controls of the contraption, and saw a distinct gleam of joy in his eyes. He knew he wasn't seeing things – it was the exact same glare Mike gave every time he successfully bullied someone's lunch money away from them. It made him feel sick and slightly abashed that it was being reciprocated on him – he would certainly think twice if he saw Richie King with a handful of change clenched in his fist.
Then something hit him – something that probably should have hit him days ago: he was never, ever going to have a normal life. He wouldn't be able to achieve any real success, because the press would always link it back to His Visit To The Chocolate Factory. He'd be recognised and hunted down in the streets; hoards of weirdos running up to him to say 'Hey, you're that guy who went to Wonka's factory!' rather than what he would prefer, such as 'Hey, you're that guy who found the ultimate cure for malaria!' or 'Hey, you're that guy who bought out Microsoft!' or (to a lesser extent) 'Hey, you're that guy in that really famous basketball team!'.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shot of searing white-hot pain through his sides and limbs. His skin felt like it was being stretched to the point of being ripped open. His face contorted into a pained grimace as he felt his entire body be mutated out of all proportion. He could hear his bones cracking under the pressure, his organs were being restricted, his pulse echoed in his ears and his throat felt hot and choked up. He tried to scream but no sound came – his vocal chords had been completely mangled. He tried to yell "Stop! Stop!" but the midgets just kept pulling. He felt burning tears roll down his face, and he was shaking beyond control. He forced silent screams until he managed to give a feeble squeak. His father, apparently unable to look at the spectacle in front of him before now, suddenly looked up and saw his son's state.
"Stop!" he yelled at the Oompa-Loompas, "Stop it, now! He's in pain, stop!"
Still, they kept going, as if urged onward by some invisible voice.
"STOP!" Mr Teavee shouted again, starting to shake almost as much as Mike, "STOP IT! You're gonna kill him!"
This didn't stop the Oompa-Loompas. In fact, it seemed to spur them on.
"Please, stop it!" Mike mouthed soundlessly.
He saw the shadow of his father as he grabbed the Oompa-Loompa controlling the taffy-puller and threw him across the room, then started to untie Mike from the machine. Mike had never been more grateful for anything in his life; his whole body felt heavy and limp, and if he hadn't known he was thinking and breathing, he would have presumed he had died.
Woah, he thought to himself, I nearly died…

"Are you OK?" Mr Teavee asked, helping Mike into a sitting position.
"Yes," Mike said very quietly.
"Come on, we're leaving. I should have listened to you earlier – I think Mr Wonka probably was out to get you."
"It's not a problem," Mike tried to say, but it was squeaky and incoherent.
"Huh?" his father asked.
Mike looked down and shook his head dismissively.
"Can't you talk?"
Mike shook his head again, bringing it back up to look his father in the eye. He could see Mr Teavee searching for something to say, but being withheld by his dismay.
"Umm…can you walk?" he asked hesitantly. Mike got off the machine and attempted to stand; he was a little unstable on his significantly thinner feet and weak legs, but he could do it, and he even walked a few steps, though it took a great deal of energy.
"I can do it," he whispered, looking down at his dad.
Looking down?
Mike did a double take.
Yes, his father was actually well below his eye line, with a shocked, incredulous expression.
"Mike, you're…you're…"
"Stretched," Mike finished. Tears glistened in both their eyes as they left the room silently.

They walked in an unsteady silence, Mr Teavee helping Mike down the stairs as he kept one hand clamped to the wall to keep his balance. They were very close to the door they had entered (Mike saw that a few of the burnt-out puppets were yet to be taken to the Puppet Hospital and Burns Centre) when he heard a huffy, German voice echo down the corridor. Mike grabbed his dad by the jacket and pulled him back around the corner, out of sight.
"Ow! Mike, do you mind?" his father complained.
"Shh!" Mike shushed him in a whisper, "I don't wanna be seen like this!"
"There's a whole load of reporters outside, and you're worried about people seeing you?"
Mike grimaced; frankly, he'd been refusing to think about that. Everyone would see him. Literally, everyone. People across the world would be watching as the "lucky" winners left their tour. His teachers would have a field day. Daniel would finally have some ammo to fire at Mike the way he had been doing for the last four years of their friendship. And Claire…Mike didn't want to think about it.
The plump woman and her not-so-little boy waddled in the direction of Mike and his dad, the former arguing very loudly in German. Mike translated as she spoke.
"Augustus, I cannot believe your greediness! Mr. Wonka was telling you to stop, so why didn't you?"
"I was hungry," Augustus replied, "How do you expect me to keep away from fresh chocolate?"
"Well, from now on you will have no chocolate, fresh or not!"
"What? That's not banana!"
Mike furrowed his eyebrows in confusion before he realised he'd mistranslated; he had probably said 'that's not fair'. Mike went to scold himself for the mistake, but stopped with the justification that he had just had a very traumatic experience and was allowed to make the odd mistake in translating a foreign language.
Mike remained hidden as Possessed Jr. tumbled past them with her equally possessed mother. She was still blue and abnormally supple, but she was basically back to normal. Mike envied the brightness in her tone as she completed her acrobatics down the stairs and said: "Look, Mother, I'm much more flexible now!"
Expecting Mrs Possessed to be pleased at her daughter's new-found skill, Mike was shocked to hear her say: "Yes. But you're blue."
"There's your jacket," Mr Teavee said, pointing over at a black coat that looked like it had been washed, dried, ironed and hung up.
"Nothing but the best here, huh…" Mike muttered sarcastically. Even Mr Teavee rolled his eyes in agreement as he plucked the coat from its hanger.

They waited for the Salt duo to leave – completely covered in trash – before starting to make their way to the door. Mike suddenly stopped in his tracks, deciding on the spot that he would rather live for eternity in a chocolate factory than to face the world in his condition. Mr Teavee, however, kept going, not noticing his son's disappearance until he got to the door. He looked back at Mike.
"I'm not going out there!" he whispered urgently with huge arm gestures. Mr Teavee looked at his towering son, stroked the hem of the relatively tiny jacket and back up at Mike.
"You have to," he said gently, "Come on."
He looked up to see the great glass elevator hanging overhead with a very smug-looking Wonka in it.
"There's Mr Wonka," Mr Teavee stated.
"So?" Mike squeaked.
Mr Teavee shrugged, "Be a shame to let him think he's won."
Mike was taken aback – his father had never consented competition, it had always been the issue that separated them. It was a mark of how much he obviously wanted Mike to walk out with his head held high. Well, his head would be held very high whether he liked it or not.
He took a deep breath and joined his father at the door, walking shakily but determinedly down the stairs. He was freezing; the snow was cold, and he was bare-skinned in places. But still he walked on. He could see cameras flashing, reporters nudging each other, there was a buzz as citizens crowded the streets for the Lucky Winners' first words.
He knew not one of them – not Augustus, not Violet, not Veruca, not himself – would have a kind word to say.
Mike could think of plenty of other words to say, though.