Author's Introduction: Greetings, people of the fanfiction world. I, Super Lizard, shake you warmly by the hand, and… erm…
This is not about screwing sheep, just so you know, but does refer to the fluffy pink sheep. This is based on the 2005 movie, not the old one or even the book. You may attempt to flog me for it later, but I'll have to warn you, I run awfully fast.
Regarding my other works—no, none of them are finished. Pretty much all of them require one last chapter. Hopefully this will be the same way, and I'll leave all you readers waiting for more.
Hey, better than having too much. Or being covered in molten lava. Being covered in molten lava is in fact much worse than being unfinished.
I Don't Want To Talk About That One
Flashbacks were becoming a little less common as Willy rid his factory of the last humans. They didn't plague him when there were no suggestions for it. The Oompa Loompas didn't speak to him of their families, and they waited patiently if he seemed to space out in their presence—and they asked no explanations. They were altogether superior to ordinary human workers, and they danced considerably better, as well. Once in awhile, though, he would stop short in the presence of something remotely familiar. Even more occasionally, he would remove himself to his private room for several hours. The Oompa Loompas asked no explanations on this, either, for which Willy was grateful.
One summer, as the year approached his birthday and he became more retrospective than usual, he found himself distracted more and more often. Little things would catch his attention—the way a door closed, or the sound of metal on metal in one of the machines. After a couple weeks of this, he decided to travel again. Yes, travel will distract me. I love to travel. If only I could avoid those pesky creative leaches that populate this entire rotten planet. He stood in his unusually decorated private room and studied a globe completely coloured in shades of brown. Tiny red dots indicated cities, and sometimes a number would accompany a place name, referring to a set of notes Wonka had scribed about the region.
He spun the globe and allowed it to come to rest, then randomly examined a land-mass.
India. No, that definitely did not go well.
He spun the globe again.
Brazil. No, the coca beans won't be in season for a long while yet, and the mosquitoes there are just unbearable.
Mongolia. Mongolia? The only manner of people that live there are usually private, as long as they're not the government, and they wander around a lot. They shouldn't give me any trouble. I wonder what kinds of not-people things inhabit Mongolia.
Mongolia it is, then.
He wandered over to his desk and hit a button, summoning the Oompa-Loompa chief—er, foreman—to his quarters at the earliest convenience. He scribbled a note in case he had trouble speaking, and ventured over to the telephone in the corner. The contraption was one of the wall-mounted boxes with the bell-shaped receivers. With a deep, anxious breath, he lifted the receiver and put it to his ear, dialling slowly.
So far so good.
Maybe this isn't such a good ide---
"Hello, this is Becky with Western Airlines, how may I be of service to you?"
Uh-oh. Willy squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself a little. I haven't spoken to any human since—
"Hello," he answered mechanically, opening his eyes and reading his previously-scribed note. "My name is Willy Wonka. I will require a private plane on June the seventeenth to take me to Mongolia."
"Ah, Mr. Wonka! It's good to hear from you again. Shall I send the plane to the airport in—"
"No!" he answered as if correcting a fatal mistake in the making. "I mean, no, thank you, have it sent to the factory. There is an airstrip of sufficient size on the property; have your pilot radio my, er, my workers, as he arrives, and they will take care of refuelling and loading the plane. I wish the pilot not to exit the plane while on my property. Can that be arranged?"
He heard a few keys clacking from the other side of the phone. "Yes sir, Mr. Wonka."
"Groovy," he smiled for no one's benefit.
"We have a contract pilot in the area by the name of John Davisson, and his file says he's flown for you before. I have another Western representative contacting now. Will you stay on the line while we confirm a time of arrival?"
"Why yes, thank you Miss Becky."
"I'm going to put you on hold for a moment."
The hold music came on, and he sighed in relief. He could feel himself shaking, and his hands were past the point of being clammy. His heart began to slow as the telephone stopped requiring that he associate with another person. After awhile, he began to tap his feet a little to the hold music—despite its lack of appeal in the area of melody, it had a catchy rhythm. When the music stopped and Becky's friendly voice started in it's place, he leapt in shock and threw the receiver with a short cry of distress.
The receiver clattered against the wall, and he backed away several steps, regarding it wide-eyed. He reached out carefully and retrieved the telephone and placed it to his ear. "I-I-I'm sorry. Hello again."
A smiling voice greeted him. "Nothing to worry about, Mr. Wonka. Mr. Davisson says he can be there at six A.M. tomorrow, and that he won't disembark from the plane on your property, according to your wishes."
"Th-th-thank you," Willy exalted. "That's fantastic. Is the factory address still on record?"
"You can send the invoice there."
"Wonderful. Good to do business with you, Mr. Wonka."
"You too thank you buh-bye," he hurriedly finished, dropping the receiver back on the hook. He backed away from the telephone unit and collapsed into his armchair, shaking and hyperventilating. He hated speaking to people. He hated people with every bit of his being. He knew that eventually, he'd have to get over it, but for now the sound of another human voice caused him to panic and seek a hiding place. He felt very, very cold.
Nice headgear, Willy.
Your daddy's crazy, my momma says he pulls teeth for fun.
Some boys are allergic to chocolate, Willy. It makes their noses itch. Wouldn't want to take that chance, now would we?
Willy, you're so weird, what's the matter with you? Weirdo, weirdo Willy Wonka, never will be normal.
Nobody likes you, Willy, you're too weird.
He pressed his gloved hands over his ears and pulled his knees up to his chin, curling up into a little ball. Leave me alone.
Go away, Weirdo Willy.
Nuh-uh, he protested mentally, squeezing his eyes shut. Stop it, leave me alone. I went away, now you go away! You're all so mean, leave me alone!
Weirdo Willy Wonka, with metal round his honker, can't eat candy 'cause his daddy told him that he oughn't-a.
He regained mental silence as his own voice echoed back to him. His throat felt raw and overused. He wondered how long he'd been screaming.
For a moment he sat very still, regaining his breath and calming his palpitating heart. He needed to get out of… he needed to get out.
A knock on the door interrupted his jumbled thoughts.
"Mmm," he groaned, peeling himself out of his armchair and went to open the door, automatically facing the floor as he did.
The Oompa-Loompa foreman gazed up at him seriously.
Wonka made a series of hand-gestures, clicks, and odd noises, effectively communicating his departure and the need for a crew to prep an aircraft for departure.
The Oompa-Loompa replied by crossing his arms over his chest, then snapping them down at his sides and bowing.
Wonka did the same, then grinned and waved goodbye to the little man, who scurried off to gather a crew. The taller of the two closed the door and returned to his armchair, curling up and giving in to the exhaustion that traditionally follows anxiety attacks.
Lumpy, he mentally complained at the side of the armchair that met his face. Not soft. I wish something was—a yawn interrupted his thoughts—soft.