Author: The Wanlorn
Summary: A story about the Oompa Loompas. It's probably been done before, but I don't read Willy Wonka fanfics, so I can truly say it's original for me.
Rating: PG13 due to evilness and disturbing concepts
Spoilers: Movie and book spoilers. But only the originals of both.
Distribution: Ask, and ye shall receive. Take without permission, then screw the Law of Three, I will curse ye with the nefarious curse of…da da dum…WRITER'S BLOCK!!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!
Disclaimer: I only own the idea, unfortunately. No copyright infringement is intended, I'm merely attempting to honor one of my favorite movies of all time. Nor am I making any money off of this insane venture. Please, I beg of you, do not sue me! I can only pay you with words.
Thank Yous: Thanks to April, my beta. Thanks to the guys mentioned below for inspiring this.
Author's Note: First of all, let me preface by saying that I absolutely love Willy Wonka. The movie and the person. This fic, however, is in honor of Vicki and Bobby and Karen and Peta and Corina and Ashia and Hudson and Michelle, who all think he is evil. Guys, this one's for you! R/R/E, por favor.
Story Notes: This would be my traditional 'how this plotbunny hit' segment. Well, at 8:30 on a Sunday in the middle of June (the 15th, to be exact), I was standing at me kitchen table, working on the board game that was to be my AP World History final. I had my computer on and was listening to all the MP3s I downloaded. As I was singing along with 'The Oompa Loompa Song', my mind flashed to the movie, to the scene where the geography teacher was telling Willy that Loompaland, where the Oompa Loompas came from, doesn't exist. And I began thinking, what if she's right? This is the fic that slowly formed…
Come, my friend. Come and journey with me. We can fly upon the wind, soar up through the clouds and go wherever your mind pleases. Do you wish to visit Xanadu? Or perhaps the Taj Mahal? Maybe travel to the Mayan ruins of South America? Take my hand, and we will be free, as free as- no, *freer* than birds. Wherever your whims and fancies take us, we can go and never be seen. We can explore the underground tunnels of Area 51 or break into the palace of Iraq's dictator. We have a free pass to take wherever, whenever we like, in perfect secrecy.
A ghost? No, I am not a pithy ghost. I am freedom. I am the sound of wind rustling the feathers of a hummingbird. I am a cricket, chirping in the dead of the night. I am the wind, the sky, the ground. I am nothing and everything. What gives men wings and teaches them to fly? That is what I am.
Or, perhaps you would rather *I* chose our destination. How is that? Good? All right, then. Come, my hand you must take, and we shall depart. No, I shan't tell you our destination. You will see when we arrive.
Feel the wind, whipping through your hair as we soar above the clouds, stray strands stinging as they strike your face. The speed makes your eyes water, the salty tears streaming from the corners and back into your hair, leaving streaks on the sides of your face. The bitingly cold air fills your lungs with a sharp tang, does it not? Aye, 'tis thin, but invigorating! Gulp it in like the finest wine as we loop-de-loop and barrel roll through the air! Isn't it an absolutely *glorious* feeling? The wind that plasters your clothes to your body, making them ripple in flapping waves, cuts through you like the proverbial knife, ey? Don't think about the cold. Our destination is down below. View it from above for a while as we cruise in drifting circles, ever so slowly spiraling downwards and closer.
Quite a bustling little factory, is it not? People coming and going, laughing and talking. Trucks being loaded and leaving through the golden gates every few moments. They all look so happy and joyous.
Well, all except for that one man down there. See how he scurries around furtively, like a rat stealing cheese. But no one notices him. He is invisible to them, such a commonplace and trusted object that this odd behavior goes unrecognized. File this away for later use, my young friend. It will become quite handy when you grow older. What is this place, you ask? A factoy. A candy factory.
But enough of this frivolity. We swoop down in a nausea-inducing dive. Isn't it exhilarating? Do not fret so! We won't crash into the ground; we're going to go… right… through it! Well, now, that was quite a high-pitched scream. Thank you very much for piercing my fragile eardrums. Pay attention to the feel of the dirt. That's important, the way it clings to your skin, its moist clamminess. See the worms and little bugs as we go down, the way the dirt slowly grows darker, wetter. Is it not comforting? This closeness and illusionary warmth?
Finally, we pass through a thin layer of concrete, brittle and cold, into a large room filled with people and machines. See how happy they all look? The way they chat amiably with each other and joke around. Let's listen in for a moment.
"They're bringing in the newbies today."
"Yeah, I know. How many do you think will be coming here?"
Hear the burst of derisive laughter? But no one takes it in offense. "You know that no one new comes to the Experimental Room. You need seniority to get here." Smugness colors his voice. These are happy people, are they not?
Come with me now, as we zoom through the machinery, taking sharp turns, flying at lightning speed. Reminds you of the scene from 'Star Wars', doesn't it? We come to an abrupt stop in front of a machine in the corner, forgotten by the workers. The red warning light is flashing, but no one sees. Telling them of it will do nothing - they can't hear you any more than they can see you. Shush now.
"This new candy is going to be the best ever!" The excitement is palpable. "What was he calling it again?"
"Oompa Loompas," one of them provides, shouting across a frothing vat.
As we observe from this desolate and dusty corner, we see worried looks on the faces of people checking gauges and dials. Something is obviously wrong, as they fiddle with switches and levers. The happiness and easy camaraderie is suddenly gone as they try to rectify the issue. More and more of the frothy liquid streams over the sides of the vats, and all we can do is watch. Screams of anguish fill the air when the liquid touches a person. Soon, none are left standing, no one is moving. All is silent as a sticky film covers the floor and the bodies.
Wipe the shocked look from your face. It was all meant to be. Nothing could have been done to prevent it. A horrible tragedy, yes, but a needed one. Be silent, young one, and pay attention. This will become the factory's best-kept secret and you need to see it. Silence… Observe…
The time passes quickly, does it not? The hours fly by on fleet wings, yet no one enters the room. See now! The forms on the floor are stirring! After many long hours, they are awakening. Your interest is peaked, I can see. They are not dead, no, but rising from their stupor.
But, what is this? There is something different about them now. Shall we creep closer and get a better look? Of course. They may not be able to hear us or see us, but caution is still warranted. Creep softly now. Ease your toes down, then the heel. The floor is a comforting sturdiness under your feet as we crouch behind a vat and peer around the gleaming sides.
A gasp of shock? That is all you are able to muster? Their faces are a brilliant orange, their hair a vibrant green, they look like forms of playdough. A child's creation is what they are. But oh, their faces! No child could dream up such a face. Or perhaps only a child…
Cold and cruel are they. Glittering eyes calculating, oh so calculating. Their sharp profiles are wily and sly. Their angry murmurings reach your ears, the words intelligible. I don't know about you, but I would not trust them any father than I could throw their short, stocky bodies. See how their eyes now focus on that far wall? Slowly, it is fading to a white screen. Static crackles, the sound of milk being added to rice krispies filling the room, snow briefly marring the white for epigrammatic sparks of time.
A giant head finally fills the screen. Wild ginger hair peeks from under a florid purple top hat. With his fly-away wispy hair and giant hat, he reminds you of the Mad Hatter, ey? Look at the sadistic twinkle in this man's eyes as he regards this, his domain. He is The Man.
Hear how his voice is strangely childish, a voice of dementia and insanity. A maniacal giggle escapes from his mouth before he speaks. "You are *my* creations now. Little happy beings to work in my factory. And I shall call you the Oompa Loompas from Loompaland, after the candy you so foolishly attempted to make." He is the god, the creator of all in his dominion.
But that's enough of that. Come, take my hand once more. Let us fly away from here. No, not necessarily from the place, but let us fly from the time. Forward, my friends, forward. The years pass by, hidden monstrous acts on these white-browed child-like creations. Playthings of a madman are all they are.
Finally, our journey stops in the present time. We drift lazily through small white rooms, devoid of personal effects, each the same as before. Warped and twisted creatures are what these Oompa Loompas have become. They carry on their duties with a sense of sadistic glee, caustic cruelty hidden under bright colors. A madness is hidden by their happy facades and child-like bodies.
These are the Oompa Loompas, my friend. Remember them and ponder as we return to our starting point. Did you like the place I chose for you? Did you enjoy this venture of ours? Of course, we will do it again tomorrow, and the day after. Different places every time. But for now, fair thee well. I leave you today in your life of doldrums. But remember the Oompa Loompas and who they once were.
Until we meet again.
~~June 16, 2003~~