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-Prelude-
Today marked the last day of the vicious January storm, which had come in southbound, sundering the clear sky with thunder and ashen rainclouds. Having lessened their burdens over a miserable little town, off headed the deluge toward distant mountains and in swept a silent, bone-biting chill to take its place, along with a three-foot fall of snow.
Charlie Bucket was a boy of eleven years, one of many others who lived in this town. He would appear to a simple passersby as an ordinary child who was neither extraordinary or special, but that was as far from the truth as anyone got.
Though the town itself was humble, a population quite inferior to that of other cities around, it was not the reason for the rise of its grandeur and fame—for this little town was home to the largest chocolate factory to have ever been built, run by a famous man whose name was known to all folks around the globe.
Willy Wonka, loved and cherished by the world, sold his candies to every corner of the earth, but ran his factory right in the heart of this little city. Wonka's candies were quickly named the best after everyone realized that every piece of sweet confection coming out of those colossal iron gates was the most delectable, exquisite thing to have ever graced their existence.
It came to nobody's surprise when Wonka bars had become the world's best selling chocolates, as everyone sought after them regardless of a sweet tooth. Even the most sour-headed critics had to admit there was an almost magical quality to every Wonka product. No one knew what it was, for it was not something tangible or obtained physically.
Yet, if there was one consistent truth that everyone could agree upon, it was that Willy Wonka's candies were as pure and innovative as the genius himself, and that they were always most delightfully, positively delicious.
Of course, the former of the above mentioned was more popular speculation than an observed fact, for it was lucky if the man was seen in public longer than ten minutes at any given time. Such a thing would naturally hinder one's ability to properly judge someone's character.
However, the world had seen Willy Wonka on that fateful morning of February 1st, where he had welcomed the five lucky children into his chocolate factory. His brief but nevertheless actual outdoor presence drew the telly-watching people of the world towards similar conclusions: the famous confectioner gave off the same aura of brilliant eccentricity and novelty that his inventions did. Of course, most of the crowd gathered just beyond the gates were simply going mad at the slightest possible opportunity of breathing the same air as their beloved chocolatier to have bothered with any other train of thought.
'But what does any of this have to do with a plain little boy?' one might ask. Well, sirs and madams; the point of all this was that this magnificent chocolate factory, which made the best, most magical and delectable chocolate in the world, would soon belong to our beloved Charlie Bucket.
Eleven years old he may still be, but little Charlie was a very precious and extraordinary one. He himself would have begged to differ, claiming he was neither faster, stronger, nor more clever than other boys his age—and it just might have been true, had it not been for one incident (or rather, a complex series of many incidents all interwoven to form a giant catastrophe). The incident, however catastrophic, would allow Charlie Bucket to discover many things about himself, and prove to the ones he loved the most that he could be faster; he could be stronger and more clever, when it really mattered the most.
So for now, let us return to telling a tale of Charlie's most courageous, yet perilous year:
Today marked the last day of the vicious January storm, which had come in southbound, sundering the clear sky with thunder and ashen rainclouds. Having lessened their burdens over a miserable little town, off headed the deluge toward distant mountains and in swept a silent, bone-biting chill to take its place, along with a three-foot fall of snow...