Halfway up the hill, Terence was a hair's breadth from turning the corner into his street when the Factory lights abruptly extinguished.

At first freezing in mid-stride, Terence took his sweet ol' time squaring up his stance and bringing the foot in the air to the ground. With narrowed eyes and a cold smile, he relished the imperfection. Missed your timing on that one, ol' Willy, ol' friend— when you pulled the plug, my foot was still in the air.

The small victory savored, Terence cocked his head, contemplating the implications. The effect was not without its drama. Turning on the lights had been lovely; turning them off was ominous. Who knew what murky explanation lay behind it? A corner of Terence's mouth tightened. The answer to that loomed as large as the darkened Factory: Willy knew.

Touché, Mr. Wonka. In mock salute, Terence embellished the thought by touching two fingers to his temple. Can I now retreat to my flat for some decent sleep? Assuredly no. Why bother? Curiosity would serve me up as its late-night snack. And all courtesy of this latest electrifying development— arranged by you.

Feeling like a fish on a line, Terence took a half-reluctant step up the hill. Willy was playing him and he knew it. And yet… a little of the restlessness that had dogged him since he'd left the Factory dropped away. He took another step, and a little more fell away; and then another, with the same result. At some point, when you're being played this adroitly, the only gracious alternative is to give in. The breath Terence exhaled rose before him in a cloud of steam. So that's what relief looks like.

Quickening his pace, the fingers of Terence's left hand curled into the folds of the rolled up sleeping bag he carried in the crook of his arm. Fixing a mistake feels better than making it, and Terence's heart smiled at the simplicity. The Bucket house be bothered, the Factory was the focus tonight; he should have seen that at once. Snappish ever since, instead of trashing Willy's invite, he should have snapped it up.

Knee-jerk, Terence concluded, as he gained the top of the hill. It took him only a second to attribute his error in judgment to a lifelong conflict with confinement—those Factory walls were no joke—and even less time to dismiss the miscalculation as history. With his lips pressed into a thin, tight smile, Terence was confident the error was easily mended.

Footsteps coming fast from behind him captured Felix's attention. Forgetting the Factory, he turned on the bench, heaving his head and neck over the back support in time to see some joker enter the plaza carrying something bulky. Felix readied to snarl a warning if the dude approached, but the new guy was already slowing without his help.

Its businesses shuttered till morning, and its other neighbor nobody's destination—even in daylight—the little plaza was about as deserted as you'd expect to find a plaza late at night. But it was an open space, and Terence took a pull before committing himself to the feeble light of the street lamps dotted around it. The pull paid off. The Factory gates and walls were in shadow—the street lamps favored the frequented establishments—but movement on the bench in front of the bicycle shop caught his attention; some busybody no doubt, with no business being there.

Terence stepped off the sidewalk, making a beeline for the bench to check it out. Offense was so refreshing.

"Sod off, ass…"

"Don't say it," chimed in Terence cheerily, only halfway across the street, and already veering back toward the Factory's left-hand gate. "Mr. Wonka doesn't abide swearing."

"I don't give a flying f…"

"Shssh," hissed Terence over his shoulder, not breaking stride, his suspicions confirmed.

"…what that wa…"

"Bridges, burning…" Terence sang out.

"…ker Wonka abides."

The benchwarmer had failed to disguise his voice even the slightest. No doubt about it, the blustery bloke on the bench was that lurking reporter. Serene with the knowledge, Terence kept on for the Factory.

Felix watched in disbelief as the man he now recognized as Terence James propelled himself at Wonka's left-hand gate. Felix half rose from the bench. That gate wasn't gonna budge, but this guy wasn't slowing, like he was sure it would open. His speed screamed it. Maybe it would. It might. It just might. Felix held his breath. If it did, he'd make a sprint for it, and get in too.

The suspense was terrible, but it didn't last. The gate held.

Terence's eyes widened at the impossibility, but his bruised wrist confirmed the outcome he didn't want to believe. "Ow," he muttered, in deference to the listening devices, shaking out his wrist and trying again. No luck. May as well use 'em. "It's me," he stage-whispered into the cold night air.

The declaration left the gate unmoved.

Disgusted, Terence looked for a note. Nothing was going right tonight. No note. That's it. At this fresh evidence of just how touchy his touchy friend was—talk about thin skin—and inspired by the reporter's recent example, a stinging string of unbidden curses cascaded through Terence's head. But biting them all back he said only, "If you hadn't turned off the lights, you'd know it was me…"

"I…"

Terence felt the end of a curved finger descend on his shoulder, tapping at him like a spike. In that moment, the night's simmering frustration focused itself like a laser beam on that one spot, and boiled over. That SLUG of a reporter had somehow snuck up behind him, and THAT was a BIG mistake. That shit… DIDN'T happen. Whirling, Terence caught his assailant's hand and wrist in his, twisting them inexorably, not caring if they broke.

Felix watched the assault in shock, his mouth agape. The old geezer had peeled himself off the wall, out of the shadows by the right-hand gate, and come up behind James; except the geezer was walking perfectly normally—noiselessly in fact—carrying the unused cane in his hand.

Sense seeped back, and Terence found his tactic working no better than the gate. For one thing, Terence wasn't feeling flesh and bone, or even sleeve and mitten. He was feeling tightly curled fur, too voluminous to properly grip. And unlike most people, who stood like statues letting their wrist and arm be twisted, this fellow was twisting himself beneath the grip, turning the tables, until Terence had no choice but to let go, lest it be his wrist that snapped.

Transfixed, Felix stared dumbfounded at the macabre dance. It was over in seconds, the geezer now up against the left-hand gate, James jumping back, out of reach.

"Owwww!" came an immediate, high-pitched wail. "You're fierce!"

Terence didn't know whether to laugh or die. There was only one person in the world with that voice.

"Holy sh…"

"Don't say it!" piped up Willy, holding his hand and arm tightly across his chest. "I've heard I don't abide swearing."

"You don't," muttered Terence, defeated.

"I don't," agreed Willy, considering.

Felix, hearing the voices without understanding the words, wondered what in hell was going on. Silent words of his own tracked a headline across the inside of his skull like a banner: Hapless Hobo Trounced By Would-be Wonka Factory Trespasser. It might even amount to something if the geezer got pulverized. Film at Eleven. Shit. No film. Felix hadn't even thought to bring a camera.

"Your turn, old fish," said Willy distractedly, rubbing his wrist while reviewing Plan B. It had worked well enough, but it perplexed him he hadn't anticipated this reaction to Terence being snuck-up on—his fault, not Terence's—and even more perplexed Terence had yet to produce the expected witty comeback.

"I didn't know it was you."

"That's it? That's the best ya got? That's not inventive," Willy scowled, tilting his head with a grin. "I said, 'You're fierce.'"

"And you're flexible," countered Terence, hoping it was true on more than one level, dismay edging his voice. He paused. "Where'd ya learn that?"

"That's better," said Willy mildly, still rubbing his wrist. "The jungle— not the leafy kind. You'd make a good bodyguard."

"For you?"

"Of course not, silly. For Charlie."

The two friends eyed each other, Terence at a loss for an answer.

Seeing the pulverization prospect petering out, Felix lost hope in his alternate story's chances. The two were talking in low tones that didn't impress as budding litigation. Felix sat up taller, straining to hear what they were saying.

Catching the motion, Willy lifted the top of his cane, indicating the man on the bench across the street. "He has a car."

"Lots of…" Terence bit off his words and turned to look at the bench. He'd made enough mistakes. It was time for him to catch up. The reporter—what was his name?—was sitting bolt upright, staring at them. "Where?"

Willy sighed happily. "On that side street. My cameras can't read the cruddy plate. I'm out investigating." Willy knit his brows peevishly. "Which I wouldn't've had to do if you hadn't left."

The petulant tone and implied still-open invitation caught Terence just so: he laughed.

"It's not funny. I'm dressing down, this isn't my hat, I've had to listen to obscenities, and I've been attacked." Finishing with a sly smile that belied his first words, Willy gave his wrist a final rub before letting his arm drop.

Terence's eyes dropped with it. "Sorry. He's who I thought you were."

"Then I approve of the treatment. He," Willy sniffed, "is who I don't want here."

"So call the police."

"Say you didn't say that. Are you off your rocker? Reports, rigmarole. I…"

"…Okay, you hate outsiders…"

Willy nodded.

"…So chase him off with the Elevator."

Willy darted furtive eyes toward Terence and then back to the problem. "Notability. Noise. Notoriety. Not into those for now. Charlie has his hands full as it is."

"You might be right…"

"Of course I'm right…"

"If you whoa for a minute," broke in Terence, "I was about to say— I know that guy, so your investigation is over. He's a reporter— the one I spoke to today, uh, yesterday."

Willy eyed the bench, one corner of his mouth pulled down in a frown, even as he rocked contentedly on his heels. "I thought so. Mr. Claims-I'm-Putting-in-a-Park?"

"No, I claimed that," clarified Terence lightly, "He's the one who published it." The elusive name swam up from the depths, popping to the surface. "Ficklegruber. Mr. F. Ficklegruber. I don't know what the 'F' stands for, but if his language is any indication..."

At the name, Willy straightened as if touched by a white-hot poker, his eyes narrowing to slits, his jaw clenching, his teeth on edge. "You don't say," he whispered in a malevolent, snaky hiss.

Terence felt his gut knot. "Surely you knew— you mentioned me being your spokesman. Didn't you read his name when you read the squib?"

Willy swung dead-flat eyes off Ficklegruber and on to Terence, his mouth a thin line, his lips as bloodless as his face. An icy fire smoldered behind Willy's eyes Terence wished he wasn't seeing. Under the spell of that glance, it took everything Terence had not to shiver.

"Eshle," Willy confided silkily, "had the sense to read me that nonsense while I worked on something else, and the further sense not to read me that name. Since then— sensibly I now see— that paper has been unseen by me." Willy turned his focus back to the bench. "I think," he breathed lazily, "I'll invite Mr.— Inconstanscavum— into the Factory. Right now. There's so much for a reporter to see." His voice dripped with honey, but he punched the bottom of his cane on the pavement, moving glassy-eyed to step around Terence and go.

Latin! Reserved for parents and God knew what other atrocities, Terence wasted no time laying a hand on Willy's curly furred coat, holding him back.

Expressionless, Willy halted.

"I'll get rid of him," said Terence, letting go of Willy's arm. "Right now."

Somewhere beyond words, Willy nodded.


I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think. dionne dance: you do let me know, and I thank you.