Charlie Bucket, a poor little boy who not long ago ate cabbage soup for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and Willy Wonka, the worlds most famous chocolatier, stood silently in a glass elevator flying over mass amounts of snow. Neither was talking, for neither had anything they could say. Not aloud at least. Long story short, it had been a most interesting weekend.
Just eight days ago, after a small tour of the whole, Charlie Bucket had received an extraordinary offer from Mr. Wonka to take over his amazing Chocolate Factory, a dream long fantasized by little Charlie. And had declined. Why? Long story short, there had been a minor disagreement in the arrangement. But Charlie had been fine after the unfortunate incident, fantastic in fact, and his poor family's luck began to brighten, though things had been rather different for Willy Wonka's.
Moments ago, Charlie Bucket and Willy Wonka had gone to see the chocolatier's father, causing an awful lot of tension, heartache, and rubbery squeaks. Long story short, Willy and his father had never been very close (speaking quite literally). But after an awkward, yet sincere embrace, the two had talked with each other, and caught up on each other's lives, and sensitively discussed each other's occupations (you'd be surprised to hear that sometimes the apple really does fall very far from the tree). But Dr. Wonka and Willy Wonka, though very different, still loved each other more than one would ever imagine, and as they said their goodbye's and went back to their own lives, were just happy they'd had this moment to make some sense of peace.
That may have been a few minutes ago, but everything was silent now, while the two occupants of the strange vehicle stood awaiting their re-arrival to town. Charlie every once in a while would look over at Wonka and notice what might have been a hidden smile. Charlie looked back down through the clear floor at the plain white world rushing by. Dr. Wonka lived rather far away from society, you see, and it had taken them a good half hour to get to his house. So Charlie stood waiting patiently and silently for his arrival in town to get back to his solo shoe-shining business.
Just then Wonka released a long sigh, and Charlie glanced back up at him. He seemed so. . . relieved. A heavy weight must have been lifted off of Willy's shoulders that day. One would be, Charlie thought, after meeting with someone you hadn't seen in perhaps over fifteen years. Let alone your own father. Willy Wonka had never told Charlie this exactly, but Charlie was a very clever kid, and after hearing many of his grandfather's stories, knew that Wonka had been forced away from all social life 10 years ago after spies invaded his factory. He had only been around the oompa loompas since then (long story short, Mr. Wonka has lots of maps that mark lots of places people don't seem to find necessary to teach us about in geography class anymore).
But Charlie also knew that Wonka was a rather. . . unique character, so he didn't ask anything about it directly. In fact, Wonka had been the one to bring up his father. Charlie glanced back up at Wonka, who was gazing thoughtfully out the window. Charlie then looked back down and smiled inwardly. Maybe he wasn't such a bad character after all.
Willy Wonka looked down at Charlie, then quickly back up again, his peaceful demeanor vanishing as he remembered something. He knit his brow and looked down sharply, thinking of how to say this, opening and closing his mouth numerous times while trying to do so. Turning his head slightly toward Charlie, but keeping his gaze firmly on the ground, Wonka finally stuttered out a sentence.
". . .S-so. . . um. . . so, Charlie," he pressed on a phony little smile, ". . . H-have any reconsideration of my offer. . . by any chance?" He really was dreading the possible answer, hoping he would never have to feel that horrible sensation of rejection, not to mention utter confusion, again.
Charlie looked up at him, but Wonka's gaze was sealed to the floor. Charlie paused for a moment, amazed yet overjoyed the offer still stood, then smiled.
"On one condition, Mr. Wonka." Wonka finally turned his head to face the boy, eyeing his serious expression curiously. Charlie swallowed, hoping his new impression of Willy Wonka was right.
"My family. . . gets to come."
Wonka hesitated, pursed his lips, then took in a breath and turned around, looking out his side of the elevator. He stood there for moments in thought. Charlie waited patiently, his dark brown eyes resting on the chocolatier's back. Wonka gazed into space, and for a moment Charlie wondered if he was experiencing another, what the man had said to be, 'flashback' on the tour, but then he spoke. He let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing in a sense of defeat.
"'Kay. . ." he began, then violently tore his gaze away from the window and turned back to Charlie, his eyes wide with importance. "On one condition," he recited. Charlie looked up at him expectantly. Wonka held up a finger, pausing, then stated, "You're to run the factory. Not them. They can. . . can give you advice, and . . . and help," he nodded, "and they can. . . talk to you about it, and help you with it, and give you ideas. . . b-but they can't tell you what to do."
He looked at Charlie with almost a sense of desperation. "They can't tell you what to make or what not to make, or. . . or when or where to send things out for shipment or any of that stuff. They can't tell you how to run the factory or tell you what's best for it or make you do what they think is best for it. They can't make you do any of that stuff. They can't make you do anything."
Willy Wonka stopped, shutting his mouth to prevent any further rambling. He looked meaningfully, but not at all strictly, at Charlie wide eyed, hoping he'd understand these rules. He wanted Charlie as his heir, not the whole family. All families would do was try and control everything, which is why he had originally wanted Charlie, and only Charlie, to move into the factory. But that, he could see now, was not an option. It was either the whole family move in or nothing at all. This little boy drove a hard bargain. But he was, Wonka felt now - no, knew now, the only one he could have taking over his factory. So he'd have to take this chance, however horrifying it was to him. He just simply couldn't loose such a child. Not again.
And now this child stared up at the chocolatier, scanning his dark violet eyes for anything that was less than sincere at the moment. Wonka usually wore his sunglasses when he was outdoors, but he seemed to have forgotten them after leaving from their visit, and Charlie was glad for this because he wanted to get a close look at the man. Charlie needed to be sure this person was truly all he'd thought him to be, before the boy put his trust in him again entirely. Wonka had really let him down before, though he may not have realized it, and Charlie didn't want that to happen again. However, Wonka's eyes were deep and hopeful, like a child waiting to be told a secret.
Yes, thought Charlie, as a big smile grew across his face, he's good. Then he bluntly stuck his hand out to Willy, who looked at it, then back at him. Charlie let his hand wait there, meeting eye to eye with the man across from him, a happy smile on his cheeks.
Wonka looked slowly back up to Charlie, then graduallyspread out the biggest and most overjoyed smile you'll ever see in your life. He took Charlie's hand with a marvelous squeak.
"Mum! Dad!" Charlie burst through the doors of the Bucket's rickety cottage, nearly breaking it off its hinges as he did. Three old people who were sitting all in one bed,waiting patiently for tonight's supper of beef vegetable stew and bread, which they could now happily have in addition to cabbage thanks to Mr. Bucket's job promotion, looked up. Grandpa Joe, who had excitedly rid himself of lying in bed as of last week, was sitting at the kitchen table waiting. Mr. Bucket himself relaxed in a spring-less armchair in the corner reading what must have been a very good book, for he went straight back to reading it right after Charlie entered the house, and allowed his wife to do any talking that needed to be done.
"Charlie Bucket!" his mother declared, turning away from the kitchen counter where she had been in the midst of cabbage chopping, and wagging a rather large knife dangerously in the air. "Where have you been, young man? Last we saw of you was this afternoon when you went into town. We've been worried out of our minds! -nearly alerted the police!"
"Like they'd do anything about it," grumbled Grandpa George in his natural grumpy manner. Mrs. Bucket gave him a sideways look one might give to a child who shouldn't be so sarcastic in their tone, then turned back to her cabbage, waiting for her son's response.
"Sorry mum," Charlie panted excitedly. His cheeks were flushed from what you might expect to be a result of running in the cold, but were only part of the reason in his case. "I. . . bumped into a friend," he stated, catching his breath, and trying not to let too much of a smile creep out. He wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.
"Oh really?" Mrs. Bucket replied cheerfully, brushing her hands off on her apron then putting them to her hips in a motherly manner. Charlie didn't have many friends; actually, none at all. Not because he was naughty or mean or anything other than a pleasant young man. He was in fact, in all seriousness, a kind of angel. Having lived so many years in poverty, he'd learned to be humble and thoughtful and grateful for everything there was. No, it wasn't him, it was just that because he was so poor, not only did most children look down at him, but he never had the time, or perhaps the energy, to make friends. Besides, he had his family; he didn't need those other kids to keep him happy. Nonetheless, his mother was always delighted to hear when he did make a friend or two, even if it was simply someone sharing a bit of their lunch with him at school, which until a while ago had been desperately helpful.
"I've not met any of your friends, Charlie, who's that?" she said interestedly. His father looked up from his book with a kind smile, as did two other of the grandparents. Not Grandpa George though, who only showed signs of interest by looking towards Charlie expectantly, and not Grandma Georgina; she was always smiling, despite what the situation may be.
Charlie looked at his family, then opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a sudden THUNK! against one of the house's walls from outside, rattling the dishes. Mrs. Bucket looked around, then turned to her husband curiously.
"Dear, what was that?" Mr. Bucket shrugged and started to speak when-
THUNK, THUNK- THUNK!
This shook the Bucket's home much more violently, like a melting gingerbread house that was finally giving way, and Mrs. Bucket gripped hold of the table to steady it, as did Mr. Bucket with the things around him.
"The chimney seems to be a bit clogged up," chirped Grandma Georgina with a happy smile on her lips, looking up at nothing in particular.
Then everything was still for a moment. Mrs. Bucket saw her husband glancing behind her with a perplexed expression, and turned around to see Charlie looking up excitedly at the roof, a big smile across his face.
Then the house gave another suggestive groan. The dishes began to shake more than ever as a deep shudder filled the floor. Mrs. Bucket held onto the table, this time so she could keep her stance through the house's steadily growing vibration, and turned to her son, wide eyed.
"Ch-a-aR-r-l-l-IEE. . .?"
Charlie staggered back and forth a bit, turning his excited eyes away from the roof and back down to her, then emitted a very guilty sounding giggle.
Wonka tapped his cane against the glass floor a couple times. He reached forward with his finger, then pulled it back almost immediately like he'd touched something hot, and placed his hand back on the cane, diligently going back to his tapping. He had to do it. It wasn't like he could change his mind now; he was a bit too far down the road for that. Besides, why would he want to? He didn't, that's what. This was what he wanted. Needed, more over. He let out a breath, trying to calm his nerves. He just needed to get himself together for the moment.
Willy Wonka had just brought Charlie back to his house to let him tell his family the good news, and that they'd be moving soon. He'd then gone upabove their crooked little house to help them with that move. But now he was beginning to have second thoughts. He knew they were preposterous. He knew his second thoughts would never alter his actions; he wouldn't allow it. Charlie was going to be his heir and his family was coming with him.
But what if they don't like it?
"Phbsshh," he scoffed aloud, hoping his real words would overcome his mental ones. "Of course they will, who wouldn't?"
But what if they don't like you . . .?
"I-" he stopped. He hadn't thought of this . . . Could he deal with people living the factory who didn't like it, didn't like . . . him? Well, it was simply impossible for them not to like his factory, let alone his candy. Everybody loved Wonka's candy, it was the best in the world! But. . .
He looked down at the house thoughtfully. It doesn't matter. They won't be seeing much of me anyway. I'll come to pick up Charlie, then drop him back off at the end of the day. Anyway, I don't need to worry about what they think. He scoffed aloud again. This seemed to help the worry to find its way out.
He took in another breath. "And even so," he began into the air, releasing the nervous breath, "They really are a polite bunch, they won't say anything anyway. A lot like Charlie himself. . . must be where he learned it from. . ." His brow furrowed, gaze still locked to the house below. He stood there for a while, hesitant.
Doesn't matter. . . he scolded himself mentally one last time as he reached forward and punched one of the elevator's many buttons. The elevator quivered, then slowly, slowly, hovered down right above the little house. Then from the top, the metal arms that usually held the lift to its cable uncurled like a spider. They craned down silently, stretching past the lift's glass sides, hesitated, then in a sudden jerking motion, one by one clamped onto the cottage's sides with four separated THUNKS! The elevator quivered again, and Mr. Wonka tapped the rim of his hat.
"Well. . . as the Romans say. . ." he sighed as he pushed the button again, " 'Alea iacta est'." The die's been tossed. The elevator trembled violently, and Mr. Wonka pressed against two sides of the elevator for support, as the metal claws brutally, yet still somehow gently enough not to cause any damage, wrenched the little house out of the ground below, lifting it into the air, and leaving asmall blankgap where the structure had been. Mr. Wonka quickly looked away, and punched another button, sending the elevator and the building hanging directly below it up and through the air.
No need to be reminded of things.
"Ch-arl-lieee!" demanded Mrs. Bucket, as the whole house rocked back and forth, "What-t the d-d-devil is going o-n, y-young ma-an! Ww-why do I have a f-f-eeling you've go-ot sommmeth-thing to do with th-this-ss?"
She sounded much more terrified than stern at the moment. Suddenly the house swerved to the left, and everything slowly slid towards the opposite wall, including the four old peoples' beds, where Grandma Georgina was singing sailing song and asking when we would reach land. Then the house rocked back in the other direction, causing a few pictures to fall off the wall, and everything in the house slid back to their original place.
"ooOOOhph!" Mrs. Bucket stumbled backward, and was caught by her husband, who was holding on tightly to the edge of the coat closet doorway. The beds and the four people in them continued to slide around aimlessly, Grandpa George swearing complaints, Grandma Georgina still singing, Grandpa Josephine frantically asking questions, and Grandpa Joe, who had jumped up onto the bed when the house had begun rattling to calm his wife, patting her hand.
"Whe-ere are w-we going! What's-s-s happ-p-pening-ng!" she demanded, while Joe patted her hand.
"S-s-aailing, s-s-aailing, o'er-r the br-rin-ny s-sea. . ."
Grandpa George was pounding on the mattress with his fists, "I'm too old-d for this b-blas-sted nonsenss-se! W-when I find who-o-o's bloody-y responsibllle, I'll shov-ve an umb-brella right up-p thei-r a-"
Charlie grabbed onto a sofa that had slid down towards him as the house rocked sharply one way. "Mum! L-let me exp-plllain!" he giggled.
"Y-you'd bet-t-ter!" cried Mrs. Bucket, trying to hold as many things down as she could, her husband still clutching onto her waist with one arm, anchored to the closet door by another. A few cabbage heads tumbled off the counter and onto the floor.
The house rocked back. Charlie jumped onto the sofa so he wouldn't be run over as it slid down and landed against the wall with a thump. He scooted to one side, still grinning widely. "I was in t-town shining shoes-ss, lik-ke I s-said, and r-ran into him-mm!" The house swerved, and Charlie and his couch slid down past the grandparents' bed, to the other end of the house.
"Dri-i-ink u-pp, me-e har-rties-s, y-yyo ho-o-o. . ."
Wonka was waiting patiently for the elevator to make its way to his factory, the little Bucket house hooked onto the bottom of it.
Perhaps this had all just been a terrible idea, he thought miserably, Maybe I should have never sent out those golden tickets. His let his shoulders sag. I could have stayed in the factory for a few more years- more in fact, possibly tens of more years. . . I would have managed. . . yeah. . . I'm not that old. . . It was just . . . just one gray hair, after all. . . He looked down through the floor at the house rocking below. His head tilted to the right. It really must have been a funny sight to see; a glass box with a broken down little house hanging from it, flying through the sky. He smiled a little in spite of himself. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Wonka sighed and leaned back against the glass as the lift soared over the factory's colossal chimneys. He glanced vaguely at the smoke that misted its way out, and found himself wondering why he'd gone out to town at all today; it wasn't exactly something he usually did. He knew he'd felt awful that whole morning. Terrible ever since. . . Wonka wilted a little, still leaning against the side of the lift, and his heart sank as he remembered.
Never would he forget that feeling when Charlie told him he wouldn't come to the factory. Never. It was quite a shock for Willy Wonka because, in fact, Willy Wonka was never shocked. Everything always happened exactly how he planned, or at the very least to his advantage. So a shock for one who's never shocked would be quite a shock indeed. And he hoped he'd never feel it again. Not only had it shaken him up quite a bit at the moment, but for the rest of that week! He couldn't sleep, or eat; he even went to his therapist to see if he could figure out why things were becoming so unraveled. But even after figuring out his candy was going down the drain, he had felt he wasn't getting the whole picture.
Trying to think, he set a finger on his lips, resting his elbow on his other arm. He just couldn't put his finger on it. He'd woken up this morning with that sensation, and had sat in his study half the day, jotting down notes for things he intended to check into, before finally getting up and going out. Which Willy Wonka never ever did. But he'd been desperate to get some fresh air, because the air in his study had been filled with unpleasant thoughts, so had put on his coat, goggles, and made his way out to town. . .
When he got there he was actually a bit surprised to see there were lots of people crowding around the shops and newspaper stands. Timidly, he made his way around any human contact, and quickly snatched a paper to see what all the hubbub was about. He hastily scurried off to a more deserted section of the square, checking to see no one had recognized him (not that they would, most had never seen him to begin with) and opened the paper. His heart sank when he read the headline, bold and plain as ever, through his dark round glasses;
WONKA'S CANDY; NOT SO DANDY?
Clever slogan, bozo, he thought sarcastically to whoever the writer of the article was, as he staggered back, vaguely sitting on a bench. He was about to read when he fairly recognized a voice. He carefully bent down a corner of the paper, peeking out from behind it. On the corner of the crowd he saw a rather scrawny small boy holding a shoe shining cloth, thanking a gentleman who handed him a coin, and pocketing it. Wonka's heart jumped out of his chest and he immediately hid back behind the paper. Why he did what he did next? He didn't know. But a few moments later he heard himself mask his voice.
"Eherm. . . you, l-lad!" He saw Charlie Bucket turn around at the call, and beckoned him with his finger, pulling out a coin from his pocket, holding it out to the lad, and pointed to his shoes. He looked out the side of the paper to see Charlie stare at him for a moment, then flicker what may have been a look of mild anger, but it was gone just as fast and Charlie took the coin, taking out his cloth and getting to work on Wonka's shoes. Wonka acted like he was reading the paper, his voice still much lower.
"Pity about that chocolate fellow. Wendell . . . er, Walter."
"Willy Wonka," Charlie assisted, not taking his eyes off of his shoe shining.
"That's the one," Wonka corrected himself, "Says here in the papers his new candies aren't selling very well. . ." Wonka waited for Charlie to say something. But the child was silent. So he continued. "But I suppose he's just a rotten egg who deserves it."
"Yep." Charlie stated.
Wonka frowned a little, but didn't move the paper. "Oh really?" He said with a smooth transition and a hint of annoyance, then hesitated. ". . . Ya ever met him?"
Charlie stopped shining, and sat up, "I did. I thought he was great at first, but then he didn't turn out so nice. . ." Wonka listened curiously. What did he do? All he ever did was offer him the chance of a lifetime! It wasn't his fault Charlie liked his gosh darned family so much. . .
Charlie blinked and went back to his shining. "He also has a funny haircut."
Wonka's eyes grew wide as he slammed down the newspaper. Now that was too much, little boy. "I do not!" He objected childishly.
Charlie didn't show a hint of surprise at who the person really was. In fact, he looked as if he'd known it all along. Am I really that obvious? Wonka wondered.
"Why are you here?" the boy asked him.
"That's why," Wonka said aloud, coming out of his mind. The realization had hit him; he'd still had hopes about Charlie. It wasn't easy for him to just give up. Just like that. He still had hoped he could change Charlie's mind. And even though he'd had doubts he could change the little boy's mind, he kind of liked Charlie. He wasn't sure why. But it'd hurt when he wouldn't come, and he didn't want to rid him of his life forever, so quickly.
"Thaaat's why," Wonka repeated, rolling his eyes, then stumbling back a little as the elevator crashed through the factory roof and into the Chocolate Room. It was obvious now. And he'd gotten what he wanted. But he hadn't changed Charlie's mind. So the whole Bucket family was coming.
"It could be worse," he said as the elevator gently landed the house on a nice patch of green swudge grass. "I could not have him at all." Which was what he would have if he'd never sent out the golden tickets. This new sense of logic made him feel better, but didn't necessarily calm his nerves over what he was about to face; welcoming a whole family into his factory. With another push of a button, the elevator flew back up through the roof, into its initial pre-made hole, and down its original shaft. Wonka took a breath, straightened his hat, gripped his cane, and stepped out into the colourful room as the lift doors slid open. He stood in front of the elevator, facing the front of the little cottage, waiting for something to happen. This is it.
The sofa skidded to the other wall, and Charlie did his best to keep telling his story. "-and we w-went and saw his f-father, and h-he had p-pictures all-ll ovvver-r the w-w-wall, mu-m! Aan-nd. . ." The sofa slid back to the other side of the house, and more pictures came tumbling off of their hooks. Charlie was sitting legs over one of the chair's arm, head over the other. "-Ev-veryth-thing went g-great! Then we wwwere c-coming bac-ck, and h-he asked m-me again, and s-said you c-could come! Sso-" The sofa and Charlie slid back to the middle of the cottage, Charlie's head now in the seat of the sofa, his legs dangling off the back. "-he's ggonna movve us r-right in the c-center of this a-mmmazing roo-oom, mum! W-wait tiiill y-you s-seee it!"
"B-but Ch-charlie," his mother cried, now desperate to have some sense of control in her house, let alone any sense of her son's story, "-y-you still hav-ven't tollld us w-who 'he' iss! W-who are yyou talllking abbout, Charlie?"
Then suddenly, the house jerked around in a full circle, and landed with a
Everything was still. A few papers from Mr. Bucket's desk fluttered to the ground. Grandpa George had stopped swearing, Grandma Josephine had stopped ranting, even Grandma Georgina had stopped singing and was looking around curiously. Suddenly she leaned in close, her eyes wide, then whispered.
"Have we docked?"
In fact, the rest of the family was wondering the same thing. Mr. Bucket loosened his protective grip on his wife, and simply held onto the sides of her arms from behind. Mrs. Bucket looked like a deer that had heard a gunshot. The family carefully glanced around their house: everything was actually pretty much in order. The furniture had slid back to its original positions, Mrs. Bucket had achieved holding down most of the things on the tables and counters, including their supper on the stove, and besides the few frames the had fallen off the walls, there were only a couple scattered papers on the ground, along with some cabbage.
Charlie crawled off the sofa and got onto his feet. He hadn't stopped smiling through all the chaos, and wasn't about to stop now. No, now the real surprise began. He stood and carefully crept towards the backdoor. His mother and father simultaneously stepped forward a bit so they could see, but stayed far behind their son. Charlie watched their expressions, then slowly opened the door. Light shown through the open doorway and into the dark little cottage, blinding the occupants inside. They all put their hands to their foreheads to shield their eyes from the sudden gleam, and the world in sight made their jaws drop; even Grandma Georgina; even Grandpa George.
They gazed out the doorway, out to fields of luscious green. Covering the valley were shapes, and just the most peculiar plants you'd ever seen in your life.
There were giant red and white spotted mushrooms, and swirly curly purple twists coming from the ground.
The entire meadow was made of hills, curving up and down restlessly, as if created by a toddler given a marker. There were what you might call trees, in amazing sizes and shapes.
Colours you never dreamt you'd see while you were living filled their entire field of vision, seeming to almost glimmer in its essence.
Off somewhere, the sound of rushing water was heard. . . could it be. . . a waterfall possibly? There did seem to be some sort of scoop ahead where a river would shore. . .
And as soon as the door had been opened, the sweetest smell the Buckets had ever encountered was swept into the house, dawning on each of the family members with a warm tingle.
No one spoke, except for perhaps the small whimper of Grandma Georgina in back, who looked suddenly downright distressed as she asked, "Am I in Heaven? When did I die?" Charlie's parents had now moved to the door, standing cautiously behind their son, and his grandparents in bed, including Grandpa Joe who was still holding his wife's hand to keep her comforted, had leaned so they could see out the door as well. Everyone but Charlie, who wasn't looking at the room at all, but had his gaze upon something- someone else, were simply watching everything in front of them in awe. Mrs. Bucket kept her eyes on the room but spoke in a hushed tone to her son. "Charlie. . . who. . .?"
Charlie glanced at his mother, then gently nodded out the door. The rest of his family's attention was suddenly drawn to something they hadn't noticed before. A man in a top hat and black outer coat, standing halfway across the room, wringing his rubber gloved hands nervously around the top of his candy coloured cane, and staring wide eyed at the people inside the cottage.
Charlie smiled. "Mr. Wonka."
Author's notes: :looks around expectantly: oH! That's me! Rrright! (Oh how exciting, I'm the author!) Kay, my second fan fiction (first was "Another Day at Work"), and don't worry, if you actually care, there's more to come. I'm not the start-something-then-drop-it-like-it's-dead kind of person. Especially not with a story. No, I get waaaay too into it for that, and I have big plans for this one already. In fact, I'm actually working on the third chapter as of now. Just putting up the first to let everything sink in. By the way, I did take a long time with this chapter taking special care not to loose the sense of the characters. I really had to go back to trailers and clips frequently, just so I could ask myself, "Kay, so is this something he'd say, or should I make her say this. . ." I really hope I did alright with that, and if I didn't, I hope you'll tell me (I won't be all upset or anything silly :eye roll:) so I can try a new approach.
"Alea iacta est": Oh, aren't you all simply thrilled to learn something new about ancient Roman history? This just means, like it says up there, "The die's been tossed." or "no turning back now". It's something extra I learned in school. It reminded me of the saying, "When in Rome," plus I thought it kinda fit with Wonka's out of the ordinary attitude, that he'd know something like that. (Not to mention it felt kind of good to show off my amazing intellect)
"Drink up me harties, you ho. . .": Grandma Georgina's line? Well, sounds like a Grandma Georgina to me, but I'll admit there's usually a second hidden meaning behind everything I do. Yes, yes. . . anyone here know the days until Pirates two? Yes? No? I do.
Oh, and as for "flames"? Yah, I could tell you all not to, and that I won't like it, and that you shouldn't do it, but there's really no point as you guys can do whatever you want. (I'm. . . assuming flames are not-very-nice reviews, right? I had to use context clues for that one blush) So, if you're in the mood for a flame, I won't stop ya: lay it on me. Get it out of your system so you don't fire up some other unsuspecting writer and hurt their feelings. Please do.
THANKS YOU TO ALL THE REVIEWERS OF MY FIRST STORY! YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST, MENTIONED IN MY PROFILE! I tip my hat to all of you. tip tip tip