I don't own Willy Wonka, or anything else from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. All credit for character creation goes toward Roald Dahl. The reading of this story may have the following side effects: laughing out loud, strange looks from passer-byers, shooting of liquids out the nostrils, uncontrollable snacking and a strange ambivalence toward bananas. - Stealth Phoenix
Chapter 2
Victor glided up and down the sparkling stainless steel tables, calmly studying the efforts of the culinary students. Each student had paid 2,500 for the honor of studying with the man who dazzled audiences and catered to the stars - peddling his eatable confectionary creations. It was rumored that he'd made transparent sugar angels for TomKat's wedding. Dolce La Vita was the elite catering center for the Los Angeles area.
"Very good," he murmured to one, glancing down her top. Very nice he thought to himself.
He walked around, carefully inspecting each effort – offering the occasional word or comment for improvement. Little did these students know that their creations would be offered up to his customers as his own work a few hours after they had departed.
A real-world learning experience Victor told himself.
He'd done this for more than two years, the few that had confronted him with threats of going to the police or media soon found themselves out of a job, rumors of scandal following them wherever they attempted to go. Once or twice, he mentioned a particularly tenacious complainant to some close friends who happen to find said complainant in alone in a dark alley and "took care" of things for their friend Victor.
Victor Brahm was not a forgiving man – when his spite was invoked, he would stop at nothing to see that his target was completely and utterly destroyed. Unfortunately, he was also a charming man who hid his ire well. Things just seemed to happen to those who've crossed him and Victor what the first to offer up a horrified exclamations and sympathy to the injured party.
Victor sat at his rarely used desk in the back of his bakery. He glanced through his e-mails and was pleased to note that requests for his creation spanned at least the next six months, with more flowing in for the next year. He'd worked hard to ensure that the blame for the fiasco that was the confectionary competition landed on the responsible party – the lowest on the totem pole. Victor smirked to himself while typing out a message to a catering acquaintance. A few words here, a free sample of work for someone's exclusive cocktail party, and a suggestion there – and like magic no one wanted anything to do with Veronica Carmichael.
He amused himself with thoughts of her subjugation as he filled out supply request forms, reviewed inventory and the other minutia that went with the running of a business. He was puzzling over a sticky note from his supplier with something that said either "caramel" or "can melt" or even the outside possibility of "camel" when the phone rang.
"Dolce la Vita, this is Victor" he muttered into the phone as he attempted to get the bloody thing off his fingers.
"I beg your pardon? Were you mumbling?" asked the rich tenor voice on the other end of the line.
"May I help you?" enunciated Victor, rolling his eyes and finally divesting himself of the sticky note.
"I'm trying to reach a Mr. Victor Brahm."
"This is he." Will this guy get to the point anytime soon?
"Mr. Brahm, I'm trying to track down a colleague of yours who competed with you at the Food Network Confectionary Challenge in Las Vegas in August."
Victor frowned at the mention of the competition. "There were a lot of people there. Depends on who you might be looking for Mr…"
Ignoring the question the voice smoothly continued, "A young woman, perhaps late 20's to early 30's, reddish brown hair – worked almost exclusively on the spun sugar..."
"I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about. We had someone who fit that description a few years ago, but they've moved on to New Mexico." Victor wasn't about to talk about to talk about Veronica to anyone unless it was a creditor.
"Really? My own sources tracked one Ms. Veronica Carmichael to your business as late as August of this year."
Victor froze. Whoever this was had managed to slip the net of references he relied on to refer business to him.
He sighed heavily and decided to spin this inquiry to his favor, "I'm sorry, I really didn't want to do this – Yes, I do know of a Veronica Carmichael, but she was let go under unfavorable circumstances."
"What kind of unfavorable circumstances?"
"Look, Mr…"?
"Wo…Nakow."
"Wonakow?"
"No, Nakow – it's…um…Russian."
"Mr. Nakow – Ms. Carmichael was let go for several reasons, she had a horrible work ethic – never showing up on time or completing her projects on schedule; she refused to follow basic unsanitary guidelines, and she let her personal life interfere with work." Victor grinned to himself – taking malicious glee in dragging Veronica's name through the mud.
"Really? What kind of personal problems?" asked Mr. Nakow
She wouldn't sleep with me, Victor thought to himself. "She was constantly leaving work without notice – we all assumed it had something to do with her boyfriend."
"Interesting. Still, I would like to speak with her. Would you happen to have a number?"
Victor frowned at this. No one up to this point has persisted in looking for the pest. "Sorry – I don't. If you have business for her, we might be able to assist…"
"No thank you." And with that, Mr. Nakow hung up.
"Loser," Victor muttered and slammed the phone back into the cradle. His former good mood was gone – reminded once again of the humiliating defeat two months prior.
On the other end of the line – the headset was set once again into the antique mahogany and brass phone that sat on the lavish desk. The phone itself was almost lost in the shuffle of various desk toys, one-a-day calendars and post-it notes. A purple latex clad hand absently reached out to the pencil holder that inexplicably was jammed with candy canes and selected one.
His violet eyes narrowed in thought as he unwrapped the treat and nibbled on the end. This was hardly an unexpected response – the man's pride had been wounded and the footage of his response during the competition was proof enough that he harbored ill-intent toward Ms. Carmichael.
He studied his ceiling with the peppermint candy swirl as he spun in his chair. Tracking her down had been difficult, and finding someone who wanted to talk about her without crossing Mr. Brahm was even tougher.
He spun faster.
A few had spoken up in her favor though, and the other workers he had singled out during the competition all agreed that she was the most skilled subject expert…
…besides himself of course.
Unfortunately, time was finite and his even more so. It would be impossible for him to dedicate the time and effort for this delicate project – and tasking it to his workers would be the height of rudeness. No, finding someone else outside the factory to maintain secrecy was critical.
He set the candy down and stood up with new determination – and immediately grabbed the desk as the world spun around him. It looks like it was time to gird his loins for going out into the world for a visit.
Then he wondered how one girded one's loins without injury.
Sounded painful…
… and unhygienic.