"Mr. Wonka!" The press had sat up like seals at the news. "Does this mean you'll be hiring more local workers for your factory?" Behind them, tongues hanging out, the crowd was on its tippy-toes; one could almost hear them singing the refrain from 'Happy Days Are Here Again'.

"Of course it doesn't mean that," sang out Willy, in his cheeriest possible voice. Why did the simplest things have to go and get all convoluted? That conclusion was worse than the licorice whip machines getting snarled. In the moment before they realized his cheer had meant 'no', Willy thought of why. "The Oompa-Loompas just can't stand that much contamination! They're not from around these parts, and that would be bad for them— no offense."

"I'm offended," came a voice from the right.

I don't care, thought Willy, with a smile plastered across his face.

"You moved their house into your factory," said the woman from the television station, waving her microphone at the bars of the gates and the Buckets. "That house was next to a garbage dump."

"It's been treated," answered Willy, hoping the Buckets wouldn't take offense. It had been squalid. His eyes on swivels checking them, they seemed to be fine with it. Heartened, he decided to expand on the concept. "I thought they'd enjoy their quarantine more if they were in familiar surroundings."

"They're in quarantine?"

The licorice was becoming a Gorgon's Knot. "Pretty much."

"Mr. Bucket! Mrs. Bucket! You, Charlie Bucket! Are you enjoying being quarantined in Mr. Wonka's factory?"

"Sure," said Noah. "We are."

"I'll say we are," added Nora.

Charlie put the cherry on top: "I'd rather be quarantined in Mr. Wonka's Factory than anywhere else in the world!"

"If you have him quarantined," came a reedy voice, "how can Mr. Bucket work on the machines?"

This was not the way this knot was supposed to develop: it was supposed to be a bow, tying up an easy explanation. What was all this logic going on? Who needed it? It was time for the commercial, but not without a finale. "A primer, dear Press, on how I pilot my Factory is not in the cards for this conference, today, or any other day. So let me say, 'Wonka's chocolates are the best—"

"—In the world', yeah, yeah, we know, we've heard it before, Wonka, enough already. You're wasting our time."

"If you don't believe us," Willy couldn't resist, "try some for yourself!"

Charlie clapped a hand to his mouth, giggling, even as he thought it not polite. His parents were repressing their own smiles, and timing their chorus amongst the four of them, they said it again, in unison. In unison, with mutters and groans, the press packed up, and left. The public followed suit, with the commercial known to them by heart, and nothing unknown likely to be forthcoming.

Willy, with the Buckets, stood his ground, watching them go. "Huh," he said, as the crowd thinned. "I'm wasting their time. D'ya think I'm boring? Cuz I'd like to be..."

Quiet ensued, while the Buckets, with more than one eyebrow raised, contemplated Willy as boring, but Willy couldn't be still. "Hey!" he said next, with a pout. "Didn't I just come out with a brand new candy?"

Nora stirred, her eyes unfocused. "You did, Mr. Wonka, but that was yesterday." Her eyes sharpened. "What have you done for them lately?"

"Why, Mrs. Bucket," Noah bowed from the waist to his wife, "I believe you're on to something."

"Well, well," Willy took up a thoughtful stance, placing his index finger on his chin, "I did announce a new— forget that!" Like a rubber band letting go, Willy erupted into a swirl of great-coat and walking-stick, making for the Factory steps. What Nora was saying, what Noah was saying... what he'd announced might have its prickly side to the town crowd. "I always say, boring is better! I've always said so! Let's go inside and see how the quarantine is working out. Truth be told, I think Josephine is the only one who is taking it seriously."


"I thought you might like to see this, Dr. Wonka."

"What is it?" His head was clear, and the pain tolerable. How much of that morphine dose had been to keep him tractable? On the other hand, the surgery was days behind him now. Healing was another explanation for the change.

"It's this morning's paper. The orderly brought it. Your son is bringing out a new candy on Monday. He's calling it 'Eat-Your-Words'."

The words barely out of Nurse Grimes' mouth, Dr. Wonka choked with contempt, quickly, seeing her look of confusion, changing it to a coughing fit, and blaming dust. He'd be damned if he'd ever eat his words! His son could bait him all he liked, but that would never happen!

"I thought you might like the article for your collection. There's a picture with it."

"There is? Bring it here!" The coughing fit ended abruptly, and thankfully so: it hurt.

Nurse Grimes smiled to herself as she left to see to the breakfast. Dr. Wonka was entranced with the photo, his fingers tracing the forms, as if, by doing so, he might conjure them into the room with him. It wasn't only his son that held his interest: it was the family flanking him; particularly the little boy, with his mother standing beside him, holding his hand. The little boy … that was the key. Dr. Wonka smiled, and began to plan.


It wasn't bad as far as prison went; it didn't even look like prison. It looked like a hotel suite, but one whose door—steel—was locked or unlocked from the outside only, and whose smallish windows boasted discrete, steel bars, set in thick, tempered glass. Terence, having had amble opportunity to roam every inch of it, was tired of it.

The spots had put him here, in what his jailers—his colleagues—told him was quarantine. The spots that had turned into warts, or bumps that looked like warts. Warts! What an idea! Who on Earth would develop a candy that gave one bumpy warts? Willy, that was who. The man was a lunatic. Terence turned from the window and flicked on the television. Six seconds later, he flicked it off again; blah, blah, blah … mindless. The remote hit the cushion on the sofa.

Maybe Willy wasn't a lunatic. Maybe he was just bored out of his mind, rattling around that old Factory of his, for all those years: candies that gave the eater multi-colored warts—anything for something new. Taking the book he was reading from the coffee table, Terence joined the remote on the sofa. After more than a week of this forced incarceration, he could sympathize.

A minute later, Terence was up again. The spots… warts… were only the excuse: the real reason he was here was sour grapes. They'd wanted him to come out of retirement, and he'd told them no. This cooling of his heels was his penance for refusing them; a penance that gave him time to decide to change his mind. That wouldn't happen.

The bumps were gone now; the colored spots fading. It was only a matter of time before their spite would be plain. And then it would be let him go, or… well, people did disappear. And people with few ties were easy to make disappear. The next few days would be touchy; how deep was their ire? There had to be something he could still do for them—

The door's bolt slid back and the door opened. Terence curtailed his pacing in favor of nonchalance. There was no question he'd rush the door—make a break for it. He wasn't the only one to understand that he'd leave here with their blessing, or not at all. The guard, for want of a better word, smiled, with another guard following him through the door with a box of groceries in his arms.

"Your next week's rations, James. Where would you like 'em?"

"Thank you, ever so. The kitchen will be fine."

"I'm sure it would. Leave 'em on the table, Kurt. I've got this."

Kurt deposited the box, and left.

"Goodbye, Kurt," waved Terence. "Don't be a stranger."

"I've brought you the paper." The guard, Klaus, was waving the paper he'd held under his arm in Terence's direction.

"How sweet of you; Klaus, isn't it? Kurt and Klaus … Are you by any chance double-agents, working for Germany?"

"Last time I checked, smart-ass, Germany was our ally. I brought you this paper, ingrate, because your pal is coming out with a new candy—"

"Warts-And-All," offered Terence, "because I already know about that one—"

"No," but Klaus had to laugh, because what the so-called Warts-And-All had done to Terence was pretty funny, made all the funnier because it wasn't happening to you. "No, he's calling it 'Eat-Your-Words'."

Terence took the offered paper, while Klaus gave him a run-down of the candy, finishing with, "the article's not on the front page."

"Don't tell me where it is," said Terence, hefting the bulky Sunday paper. "I'll amuse myself for the rest of the day looking for it … You do know, that this is more evidence that Mr. Wonka is a master at manipulation using candy. I've said all along these bumps on my skin are nothing but a side-effect of eating a candy of his that looked like pollen. You know how annoying pollen can be."

"I'm beginning to see how annoying your buddy can be. But we have to be certain you don't have a new disease; that's the reason for this, er, quarantine, and it won't be over until those spots are gone."

"As long as it's over then, good man. They're almost gone now. I do so want to get back to finding out about that shrinking-ray my 'pal' has. Remember that? Kinda hard to do that from here, but if you folks don't mind me vacationing on the taxpayers nickel, I don't…" With an air of complete indifference, Terence gathered a few throw-pillows into a headrest, and stretched himself out on the sofa, losing himself in the paper, and losing interest in his guest.

These candies, that shrinking-ray: what else had that nut-case got going on in that Factory? Terence was their best bet for finding out. Perhaps he ought to be sent back… Klaus left as he had entered, locking the door. Terence arose and saw to the groceries. He didn't mind. Doing for himself was better than being disturbed three times a day by jailers, however comfortable the jail might be. That chore done, Terence made his way back to the sofa, back to the paper, and easily found the article in the Food Section. The article that described the candy and recent doings was interesting, but the photograph that accompanied it was more so. Willy, flanked by the Buckets, or most of them, behind the closed Factory gates, courting the Press, three times a day. What had transpired to bring that about? The photograph gave no clue, and Terence knew full well the words he wanted to eat: 'I'll be back in a couple of days.'


At noon, the little group got as far as the top of steps, stopping when Willy did.

"Do you see what I see?"

"I see not too many people," said Charlie.

"I see no Press," said Nora.

"That's what I see," agreed Noah.

"Do you think it was something I said?" asked Willy, hopefully forlorn.

They all peered at him, and before Willy could, Charlie laughed, the sort of laugh that was more nervous than fun. "Could be."

Catching Charlie's eye as well as he could with his goggles on, Willy laughed with him.

"Could have gone either way," said Noah. "Riots or abandonment. You did say you have no intention of hiring any of them."

"And I don't. And I won't."

"There is something poetic about them turning their backs on you," said Nora. "That is what you did to them." Narrowed eyes aren't easy to see behind goggles, either, but the swing of Willy's head in her direction was all Nora needed. "I'm not saying that this is the same thing."

"Good; because it's not."

Wanting to continue, Willy bit his tongue. The Buckets saw no percentage in it either, and held theirs. It went without saying that the townspeople rioting over Willy's unwillingness to hire them would get them nothing. Willy had a work force; no law said he had to hire from the town; and if they did behave badly, Wonka was more likely to shut-down again then capitulate, and this time, the shut-down might be for good. Wonka's candies were too wonderful to let that happen again! No, it was best to let the jerk have it his way, but if that was his way, the townspeople might like his candies, but they didn't have to like him: it was as simple as that. The people passing at the gate were the living proof of this. They did look, but few stopped, and those that did, were sniggered at. 'No more free samples, stupid'. The words floated on the wind.

Willy Wonka outside his Factory; Willy Wonka speaking to the Press: a novelty at first, a glimmer of hope that things were changing between Wonka and the town; and a new candy, to boot! For one whole day, it had been so exciting, so thrilling, so… easily crushed the next day, the next morning, to find nothing had changed at all. News traveled fast, and almost to a person, the townspeople were done with this creep. Wonka had delivered them a blow, and for the second time.

Willy watched for a good five minutes, the knot of people he expected to form not forming. It was too good to be true. "D'ya think it'll last?" he breathed.

The Buckets had no idea.


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; reviews are nice; so are favs and follows; and I thank you for one, some, or all.

Squirrela: That is kinda Dr. Wonka and Willy; creepy and fun. Directors have a lot of influence. Thanks for your review. Scribbler: I think so, too, the more so because Mr. Bucket wanted to do it. Willy can be reticent to a fault. mattTheWriter072: Mr. Bucket: books and machines: he likes them both. Maybe his favorite thing: books about machines. Thanks for your review, and I, like you, do hope that you find a moment to update your stories.