It was a good plan; a simple plan; but with a paren involved, it evolved in a way Willy hadn't envisioned. Before they could go, Nora insisted upon making a phone call.

"Why?"

"To let the school know I'll be picking Charlie up early." Narrowed eyes and thinning lips were her answer. "So they can have him ready when we get there."

That sounded reasonable, even intelligent, but telephones weren't uppermost in Willy's inventory of what needs to be where, when. There was such a thing with an outside line in his office, but without saying so, he'd rather not go there. Administration, aha! Doris had an outside line. With a grin for Mrs. Bucket, and his own resourcefulness, Willy pushed the appropriate button, and off they zinged.

Once there—sidetracked with signing papers for Doris—Willy hadn't realized that Nora had made two phone calls until, sliding strokes of his pen having dispatched the stack of the stodgy, Nora announced that they needn't go at all.

"Of course we must," said Willy, his finger poised over the button marked 'Elevator Maintenance'.

"I called Noah," breathed Nora, thrilled to think she'd avoid more rides in that atrocious Elevator. "He's on his way to get Charlie now. We can stay here."

"Noah, in what?"

"On foot, of course."

"Disaster! Catastrophe! What protection is there in that? Why do you modify my plans? Get in, if you're coming with me. Don't dilly. There's no way I'm taking this Elevator, and there's not a moment, and even fewer now, with what you've done, to lose!"

Nora thought to argue, but took a look at Willy's face, and thought again. With Doris tsking and shooing at her from behind, Nora jumped in as the doors swished shut and the Elevator bolted off. The motion didn't put Nora on the floor, but that was only because the corner she barreled into held her up.

"Don't push any other buttons, please," said Willy. "I don't want us delayed any further."

"I'll try not to," said Nora, regaining some semblance of balance, if not of composure. "Why can't we take this Elevator?"

"And let the Press see all of these buttons? All of which are rooms? Are you insane? The idea is to keep what's in this Factory secret. Is this a new concept to you?"

They'd arrived at Elevator Maintenance, and Willy was striding towards a smaller, but still roomy model, with far fewer buttons. "You don't need to come, you know. I can do this myself, seeing you've sent Noah."

Nora, her back up at being dismissed, beat Willy to the Elevator he was heading for. "I'm going."


Racing up through the central stack, climbing high above the Factory, Nora had to admit the view was stupendous, and the experience a thrill. The town was laid out below her like a bauble, and she felt as if it were all hers for the taking. Willy guided his jewel of glass to a knot of people near the school, and with a sharp intake of breath, Nora recognized Noah and Charlie at the center of that knot, a knot that moved about them like lava.

"You didn't think the Press wouldn't be at the school, did you? That is where the next scene in this act would play out. That's why we needed transportation, and this is the fastest I have, as well as the most difficult to impede."

"I didn't think," said Nora, her hands on the glass. "We have to save them!"


Swooping onto the scene, the Great Glass Elevator, streamlined version, became the center of attention as all scattered to avoid its rockets. The doors opened with a 'ding', and Willy's cheery greeting: "Good afternoon, good people of the Press! It's such a delight to see you, and such a dismay that we may not stay; this way, Buckets."

Noah, Charlie's hand in his, hastened to the Elevator, with the Press in disarray, striving to get their bearings. A man with a camera got his, and started flashing pictures. Another shouted a question. Willy bowed, his cargo safely aboard, and made to go. "Wonka's chocolates are the best in the world," he said, as the doors closed. Grinning happily, he pressed a colored button. "You can quote me on that!" but his words were drowned out by the rockets. The flying glass elevator sprang to the sky, swirling dirt and debris flying after it.

"That's not what I asked," said the reporter, wiping his mouth of the grit.


Noah and Charlie laughed all the way to the Factory. Nora did her best to match their mood, but failed. Willy swooped and soared, giving them an airshow without loops, as he didn't believe the tinge of green on Nora's face was conducive to keeping his Elevator clean. At last returning them to the Factory, and then to the Chocolate Room, Willy bade the three of them good day.

"I think your days of peace are over, Willy," said Noah, before Willy could make good his departure.

"Yeah, my routine is receiving the rout, but without a doubt that's due—it's been many a moon since I've done anything really new routine-wise—so I won't be spending my time with boohoos. Will you? Cuz the peace in your lives is over, too."

"Come to dinner, and we'll talk about it," suggested Nora.

Charlie's eyes lit up. "Will you?"

"No, I won't, but thank you for the invitation. There's furniture to see to, and after that a Factory to see to, and after that, sleep to see to, and that's enough for anyone." With a bow of his head, Willy turned. "Noah."

"Willy."

"If you feel up to it, with what's left of the day, it will be up to you and Nora to see to the furniture."

"Furniture?"

"I'll explain, dear," said Nora, before turning to Willy. "Can we hire help, if we need it?"

"Hire any help you need that needn't enter the Factory. Noah."

"Willy."

"You expressed an interest this morning; did you want to see the Factory's turbines tomorrow?"

Noah's eyes lit up as brightly as Charlie's had. "Yes!"

"Then," Willy turned with a radiant smile to Charlie, "I shall join you for breakfast, and after the morning's chores, which I would like you, and you, and you, to help me with, I shall give you," he glanced welcomingly at the others he had just finished pointing to, "and anyone else who would like to attend, a tour of the Factory's means of power generation."

Nora, happy at the inclusion, but wary of the unstated, felt her teeth find her lower lip. "What are the morning's chores?"

"You'll see," said Willy. "You've already seen."

With a sly smile and a tilt of his head, he left them.


Willy was true to his word. The morning's chores, as stated at breakfast, were to greet the Press at the gates. It was Saturday—no school—but the reporters wouldn't care about that. The hounding had begun.

"Ya know what makes the news interesting?" Willy had asked, while buttering a piece of toast.

"What?" the Bucket family had chorused for him obediently.

"That it's new," Willy had laughed back at them. "So that's what we're gonna do: we're gonna be new at first, and then we're gonna be not-new, over and over again. And we're gonna sign autographs. Autographs are in: ya gotta do that. So we're gonna do that. 'Kay? So who wants to go to the gates with me? You won't, I know," Willy gave a pointed look to Josephine. "You're a success."

"Not me," said George. "The Press are a bunch of— Well, I won't say, but they are."

"I will," crowed everyone else, over each other, with none of them actually saying it.

"I've always wanted to sign autographs," said Georgina.

Willy produced a sheaf of note sized papers from a pocket of his tailcoat, and from another pocket, a collection of colored pens. "Who wants what flavor? I get Snozzberry. I'm exotic."

"Grape!" cried Georgina.

"Orange!" cried Charlie.

"Peppermint!" cried Nora.

"Cherry!" cried Grandpa Joe.

"Whatever you've got left over," murmured Noah.

"Banana," said Willy, "though if you want, you can be lemon."

"No, banana is fine. I'd like to think I'm not a lemon. But why are we talking flavors when you're passing out pens and slips of paper?"

"Cuz you can eat the paper, of course, though I have no plans to mention that. Someone will figure it out. The pens that I've given you with the paper have edible, flavored, colored inks. Be sure, and I mean sure, to sign only on this paper, and only with these pens. It's most important. Have you got that?"

"Sure," drawled Noah.

Willy laughed, his eyes bright. "So here's the plan: first, everyone sign the note papers I've given you; not with your real handwriting, of course, that would be silly: make something up. I, for one, use lots of curly-cues. You may have noticed.

"It doesn't have to be writing: you can make a picture of your initials, if you like. When these are through," Willy held up his sheath of papers, "we're through … If not before. Then, when you're asked a question, say…"

And Willy detailed the rest of his plan. Hearing it, the Buckets grinned. It was as simple, and simply annoying, as it could be.


The Buckets, armed with the plan, signed papers and pens, went with Willy to the gates. They stopped arm's length away, and the Press, who were in fact there, pelted them with questions. Sticking to the plan, to every question asked they gave the same answer: "Wonka's chocolates are the best in the world. If you don't believe us, try some for yourself." Sometimes, to change it up, they'd say, "Wonka's candies are the best in the world…" It was wonderful advertising, and boring at the same time.

The reporters didn't care about, and didn't ask for, autographs. But people passing, seeing what was going on, approached the gates. Willy Wonka, flanked by this family, greeted them with smiles, and if the smile on Mr. Wonka's face seemed less than genuine, who cared? That was Willy Wonka, top hat and all!

This new crowd crowded the reporters, making their lives more complicated, as space in front of the gates become more coveted. The question finally came that elicited a different response.

"Mr. Wonka, may I have your autograph?"

"Yes, you may," Willy beamed, and he held out one of the note papers, already signed by him, that the asker, reaching through the bars, took with eager hands. It made Willy feel bad for what was going to happen to that signature later, but it had to be done, or they'd never have any peace again.

After that it was pandemonium. The reporters hadn't a chance. Disgusted, they gave up yelling their questions. The Buckets got in on it, and handed out their autographs, the people not knowing if they wanted them, but taking them anyway, because you never know. In short order, all that had been signed were gone, and Willy stepped closer to the gate. "Wasn't this fun? Wasn't this charming? Didn't you have a good time? Isn't it everything you thought it would be? But I've a Factory to run, and candy to make—"

A cheer went up from the crowd. Willy's smile became genuine, and those seeing it were warmed by it.

"So that's all we have time for now. If you'd like more of a good time, be here at afternoon time, and we'll do it again, exactly as we've done it this morning. Won't that be fun? See you then, or not, and until then, or not, au revoir! I'm sorry."

Turning, his lips pursed, Willy skipped away, skipping up the Factory steps, with the Buckets trailing after him.


"Are we watching the Pied Piper here?" groused a reporter.

"We may as well have copied down that billboard over there."

"Did he say he was sorry?"

"That's what I heard."

"For what?"

"I dunno; at least some people got autographs; that's something. It wasn't a complete bust."

"Yeah," said a camera man, shouldering his case. "They can sell 'em on eBay, and make some money."

"Hey!" said one of those people, holding up one of those autographs. "Look at what it's doing!"

The reporters hurried over. The ink was migrating on the note paper, becoming unreadable, even as it made a random design of swirls. It was happening slowly, but inexorably.

"Maybe that's what he's sorry about? That you'll get nothing lasting from him?"

"There's an idea: nothing lasting. Lets rake him over the coals with that!"

The owner of the autograph snatched it back. "That's the trouble with you types. You want to rake people over the coals. Can't you see there is nothing lasting about candy? Why should he make his signature last? He never has done anything the way other people do. Did you think he'd start with autographs? Why don't you just leave him alone?" With clouded brow, the man studied the note paper. The ink, hitting the edges of the paper, was starting back in, as if on a ricochet. Who knew how it would end, or when? It was a mystery; a delightful mystery. "I'm keeping this. It's as unique as Willy Wonka is." With that, he hurried off.

Not to be outdone, a reporter called after him. "What about that Everlasting Gobstopper those tour kids talked about? That lasts."

"That's the exception that proves the rule," shouted back the autograph-keeper, undaunted. "Go ahead and try and rake Mr. Wonka over the coals with this! You'll only wind up eating your words!"


An Oompa-Loompa on security duty, listening in on the exchange, laughed. He'd tell Eshle to tell Willy that the launch of 'Eat-Your-Words' had gone better than planned.


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, reviewing, clicking favorite or follow, or any combination thereof!

'Eat-Your-Words' is a play on a play on words Mr. Dahl did in Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. His involved sword swallowing—'sword': 'words' with the 's' on the other end—I thought I'd go with paper one could eat. With the Chocolate Room the home of everything eatable, it's not a far stretch.

Squirrela: Thanks for your observations; it's a trick keeping the balance in this story. Linkwonka88: Yeah! Damn leeches! Thank you. Ms. Scribbler: Dickens' novels: considered long now, but normal then. The times, they do change. Thanks for your review. LokianEule: I'm so glad you didn't hold off until the end. Reviews mean so much to an author on this website. I'm glad you're enjoying the story, and glad I now know it. Thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy!