They walked and walked, up one corridor and down another, through one room and through another, for far longer than it should have taken them to reach the suite. This was more of the Factory proper, Mike knew it, and some of it was more amazing than the rooms they'd been shown on the tour, which were pretty amazing. 'Far too much to see' Wonka had said, and he wasn't kidding. Willy walked in silence, seemingly oblivious, and Mike, thinking of question after question, asked none of them: he didn't want to give Mr. Willy Wonka even a glimmer of satisfaction that he, Mr. Mike Teavee, was showing any interest whatsoever in anything that Mr. Willy Wonka had accomplished, and that included getting Mike back down to his original size. Instead, Mike observed.

The Factory was quiet at this hour, but as they walked, Oompa-Loompas on night-duty came and went, nodding and smiling at their employer as they passed, with Willy doing the same for them. Most avoided looking at Mike, though a few threw scowls his way, and the rest, if they did accidentally make eye contact, made their faces a blank. It was clear to Mike that he hadn't made any friends with his previous behavior, but also that the factory denizens held one another in great respect. As different as this was from the atmosphere in Mike's home, Mike could see that what they were exchanging was more than respect: it was affection. Lost in those differences, and thinking over the lack of that last quality in his house—a circumstance that Mike usually went to a lot of trouble to ignore—as they crunched along the rock-candy graveled shores of a vast, lemonade lake, Willy spoke.

"If you were given an opportunity, Master Teavee—A wonderful opportunity!—A stupendous opportunity!—A fantastical opportunity!—Would you turn it down because you couldn't bring your family with you?"

Master Teavee? Mike caught his upper lip with this lower teeth. It was an odd question, even for Wonka. Mike pondered. Wonka wasn't looking at him, he was looking away across the lake: as if he hadn't realized he'd spoken the question out loud. Mike thought about what he'd lose if he lost close proximity to his family. He could think of lots of things, but none of them were anything he thought he'd miss. "No," he answered. "I'd take the opportunity. What opportunity?"

"You would? Even if it meant you'd never see your family again?"

It was clear, from his measured response to Mike's answer, that Willy had known he'd spoken the question out loud.

"I would," affirmed Mike.

"So would I," said Willy, looking as if he were about to sigh, but not doing so. "So would, I would have thought, anyone, until yesterday."

They left the lake, and through a portal door, reached another corridor.

"Was there anything about the tour that you liked?"

That feeling of being included was back, and Mike didn't want to spoil it. Truth be told, there'd been lots of things he'd liked about the tour. In fact, acting—for his father's benefit—as if he were having a horrible time had been getting tiring. Smiling and waving as he'd been lifted in the 'pulling' part of the Television Chocolate machine had been a joy; liberating, even. It occurred to Mike that showing the delight he'd felt all along might have been a better plan. He turned his focus further inward. Liberation: what would that feel like?

"Was that a hard question? Or is the answer 'nothing', and you don't want to offend me."

Mike had to smile. He hadn't realized he was taking so long to answer. That Mr. Wonka was asking if causing him offense was what was slowing Mike down was downright funny. Mr. Wonka must have thought so too, because watching Mike's face reflect Mike's thoughts, Mr. Wonka laughed. This time Mike had no doubts the laugh was with him, and not at him.

"I liked smashing pumpkins," said Mike, his small smile still in place.

"The band, or my jelly-filled gems?"

Mike couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to laugh happily, but he knew he wanted to now. "Both," he said, being careful not to laugh any way at all.

Making an unexpected about-face, Willy back-tracked, and turning down a side corridor, pushed open a narrow door. The scent of hot, melted chocolate, of the finest quality filled their nostrils, and the roar of the chocolate fall filled their ears. They were standing near the far edge of the pool formed at the foot of the fall, the place where the yacht had been moored. It was there still, oars stowed, with not a rower in sight. Willy took an expansive breath, blissfully drinking in the delights that two of his senses freely offered him. Mike's nose wrinkled at the sudden stench, and before he could think, he quickly clapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

"Isn't all this contaminated by that Gloop kid?" Mike mouthed, his outburst prompting Willy to eye him as if he were a germ.

"I'd say you're mumbling, but clearly you are muffling." Willy shrugged his shoulders. "Muffling's okay. I'll answer. I burned that lot, last night, and all that that self-littering litterbug touched has been sterilized." Willy paused, curious. "Didn't you smell it? There was loads of it. I thought I'd given the whole town a whiff."

Not from behind the closed windows of our hotel, thought Mike, though he had noticed a kind of a funny smell over the town the next morning, as he and his father had made the walk back here. At a brisk pace and not waiting for an answer, Willy led them further up the slope. Following, a grateful Mike made an adjustment to his defenses.

"You hate chocolate," Willy said to Mike conversationally, with not a hint of animosity. "Is there a reason for this? That you know of?"

Mike sighed. Chocolate … The smell of chocolate … He wasn't fond of it, any of it, and this room was not his favorite, though it did hold the pumpkins. With the adjustment he'd made, the smell of the fabric of his sleeve across his nose was dampening that sickening odor. Wonka had that look that said he thought Mike a germ that ought to be under a microscope back on his face.

"It's that bad? You didn't do that during the tour."

Mike nodded, reluctant to let go his shield. But he was a tough kid—he'd been tough on the tour—and so he did. "Not that you saw, or my dad saw, but that doesn't mean I wasn't doing it. My dad said if I did it, I'd be being rude."

"And that stopped you?"

At first wanting to laugh spitefully at the question, upon hearing Wonka's naked incredulity, there was enough goodness in him for Mike to hang his head. Wonka and he both knew Rude had eventually triumphed, and Mike had the sore knuckles to prove it, and remind him.

"'Mmmm…" Willy would check with the Oompa-Loompas. They saw everything. "Continue."

"When I was little, two I think, I got into my parent's Halloween stash. I ate all the chocolate in one sitting, and that made me sick: really sick. Since then, I can't stand the stuff."

"Or stomach it."

Instantly, knowing what was coming next, Mike shot Wonka a look—Mike's lips a thin line, his brows a deep 'V'—and gauging that defensive hate, Willy stifled the giggle gurgling up at the back of his throat. To be fair, sickened by chocolate was too hideous a disaster to contemplate, and nothing he should laugh at, buuutttt, 'stomach' versus 'stand' was a good word-play, and worth a titter or two, buuuttt… "Okay, okay, I won't… Ya look kinda green." Willy, to his immense shock, felt sorry for the kid. Then he remembered what Eshle had told him. "You ate the Banana-adana Dandy Split … That had chocolate in it."

"I didn't know that when I ate it."

"You didn't spit it out when you discovered it."

Mike colored. "I knew you had cameras in the room."

"Tsk, tsk, you untrusting boy. I had an Oompa-Loompa in the room: Eshle. He gave me a full report. You ate the whole thing: with a smile on your face."

The color on Mike's neck made it to his face. It was true: he had. "I couldn't really taste the chocolate. It was mostly just crackly in my mouth, and I liked that. It was mostly about the other flavors."

"That would be banana, mostly," agreed Willy. "The chocolate veins are not the main attraction, and the crackly sensation they add is a counter-note to the creaminess of the rest of the ingredients." They were nearing the pumpkins. "So how'd ya like the chocolate? Cuz ya did keep eating it."

Ducking his head, Mike thought by now he must look nearer a beet than a boy. How humiliating!

"Ya liked it!"

The infernal Wonka wasn't going to let Mike live this down.

"It's okay, you can admit it, my chocolate's not anybody else's chocolate, and that makes all the difference, even for you, who hate chocolate."

At least he gets it. Mike ground his teeth together. If he gets it, let it end!

With the kindest of smiles, Willy, with the gloved knuckles of his left hand, gave Mike's shoulder a gentle nudge. Mike, leaning into the nudge, gave Wonka a glance. It was no use pretending, even to himself: the man knew Mike had found the chocolate tolerable; good, even, and it had been good. "That's because it's mixed by waterfall," Mike said.

Willy, after a pause, laughed. "Why did I say that? It's mixed by chocolate fall!"

It was Mike's turn to laugh.

"Too bad about your paa, paa—"

"Parents," said Mike smugly, his embarrassment abating on account of Wonka's display of discomfort.

"—not being able to hide chocolate properly."

Mike could see that Wonka's eyes were taking on that far away look he'd gotten whenever that starving kid had asked him a question.

"It was Halloween, you say…"

From the equally far away tone, Mike thought he'd be treated to one of those flashbacks he'd seen, but it was not to be. Wonka's voice was firm as he continued.

"My pater's policy regarding confectionaries saved me from your fate-worse-than-death. It's strange to think that that policy may have been beneficial to me. This, dear boy, will be beneficial to you." So saying, Willy took a small flat jar from his pocket. Unscrewing the lid, with, of course, his signature 'W' emblazoned upon it, he offered the contents to Mike. "Take a dab of that, and smudge it beneath your nose."

Uncertain at taking anything Wonka offered, Mike nevertheless did as he was told. A minute later, his eyes widened in wonder. "It's gone! I don't smell the chocolate any more!"

"Yeah," Willy smiled, "you don't smell anything else, either, and that's the problem with that stuff. It stops your nose from smelling anything, and smell is one of the big biggies in telling you how things taste. I'll bet back in the suite, all you could smell was the banana. It doesn't surprise me a bit that the chocolate made it past ya. I can only use this when I don't plan on needing my sense of taste. That, heh, in my line of work, is not too often."

"Will I get it back?"

"Oh, yeah, the effect only lasts, like, an hour, but who's got an hour to not be able to smell or taste things in?"

Me, thought Mike, easy. Super easy! With the smell of the chocolate neutralized, Mike could enjoy the room. The lighting was dim, as befitted nighttime, but in the nighttime, with the candy copses shrouded in shadows, the wonder of the room was the ceiling. With its dominating soft glow, Mike's eyes were drawn to it. Far out of reach, thousands of light tubes of various lengths and thicknesses hung from the heights above, each tube fitted with a LED at its end. The result was the Milky Way, in all its miniaturized glory.

"I see you see it," said Willy, pleased at Mike's reaction. "I like Space. I like Space in my space. That Space, up there, is the same as the Space outside this space, which is to say, the same space you'd see if you were standing outside, looking up." He pointed with his walking-stick. "That's the constellation Cassiopeia. Like it? I like it. Know why? Know why?" Excitement gripped him. "Cuz it's really the Wonka constellation! Know why? Cuz it looks like a 'W'!"

Mike grinned. "So it's your favorite constellation."

"So, you're so wrong! My favorite constellation is not a constellation. It's an open cluster, and I like it because it's so pretty, and so unlikely. Wanna smash some more pumpkins? Feel the need for a climbing body-count? Here they are."

Something in Wonka's voice made Mike think the question was a trick, but trick or not, at the moment, Mike didn't want to destroy anything. It was all too beautiful for that, and destroying it—any of it—seemed, well, stupid, and well, Mike wasn't stupid.

"No."

The word hung between them.

"Thank you," Mike added.

"Then wonderful, time to move on." With a heft of his walking-stick Willy whirled, and was on his way. "As charming as you've been in these wee hours, your suite awaits."

The suite? Mike had forgotten about the suite. He'd been enjoying this. It was ending? Maybe… "I liked the exploding candy."

Climbing up the hill to the door they had entered the room from during the tour, Willy pushed through to the long, red-carpeted corridor before turning, and lowering himself into the squatting position he used when talking over something important with the Oompa-Loompas.

"Ah," Willy began, now eye-level with Mike. "I was hoping you'd bring that up: Exploding Candy, for your enemies … I ask you, can anyone have an enemy, when they are armed with candy?"

Disconcerted by the sudden close attention, but interested as well, Mike gave a nervous laugh.

"But that room was right up your alley, wasn't it? I thought it would be; more so even than Television Chocolate would be, and I was right. That was where you showed me your true colors … Let's see, what was going on? Oh, yeah, there were the Oompa-Loompas shooting at targets; keeping score as far as you knew, 'cept they really weren't, and hey! That makes them doing what you do, 'cept not with a screen, and you, watching it, described what they were doing as pointless! Pointless! Your word, little boy, not mine.
"Do you think, little boy, that living a pointless existence is why you're so angry all the time? Because what you spend your time doing—all that screen time—all those games—all those destructive, pumpkin-smashing, first-person shooter games you think you like so much, are, to use more of your own words, a waste of time? Do you think that day-after-day you're so angry, because day-after-day, year-after-year, you waste your time? And you're livid, and grinding your little teeth into tiny nubbins, because you know you're wasting your time? And knowing you're wasting your time, you do nothing? Time you'd be happier, as intelligent as you are, spending in some other way?"

Mike had stepped back in shock. No one spoke to him in this way. The words were firm, but the tone was soft; caring, even.

Willy, pulling back, straightened up.

"I hate lectures. Givin' 'em; gettin' 'em. Don't you? But pointless wasting of time: d'ya wanna do something about it? If ya do, dear boy, think about those nine atomic bombs you're so fond of. Until you come to grips with what's behind them, it will never change for you."

Willy was striding away again, but desperate, Mike ran to catch up.

"I don't know what you mean!"

"Don't you? What did you hate the most about the tour? What do you hate the most about me? About my Factory?"

"I don't hate you," Mike spat.

"Well, not as much now as ya did when we started this adventure, cuz let's face it, when it comes to me, what's not to like? But you still don't like me. Look at that sourpuss look you have on your face right now, and were I standing any closer to ya, my robe would be wet, yetch, from your spit, yuck!
"But it's okay. I don't take it personally, and anyway, you don't really hate me, any more than you're your facial expressions. You hate something else; something that I represent to you. Figure out what that is, little boy, and change your life.
"Cuz ya know what? Now that I've been your shrink," Willy put his hand to his lips, tittering, "I can see that, lucky you, those true colors you showed me on the tour aren't your true colors. Fix that. Unless ya wanna spend the rest of yer life acting.
"And now, the cock is about to crow. Ahlia here will see you to your suite. Sleep as long as you like—you'll fit the bed now, and it's darned comfy—wake up, ring the bell, have breakfast, ring the bell again, and you and your pater will be escorted to the door. You are free to leave. You are not—a pity for and about you and your parens—free to stay."

Mike could only gape. Willy's eyes studied him, shifting as they reflected the thousand thoughts he might add for this boy, before deciding he'd said enough.

"So there ya go. It's been real, and it's been fun, and maybe for you it's been both, or maybe it hasn't, but either way, we're up to the part where I say: bye-bye, little boy, bye-bye."

With a jaunty, mock half-bow and wave of his fingertips, Willy retraced his steps to the Chocolate Room he loved, and that Mike Teavee, Willy now knew, would forever loathe. It was a fact Willy accepted with some disappointment, but without rancor.

Watching the sashaying walk of that retreating back, the silver and blue of the rich brocade catching the light and gleaming, like glimpses of promises, Mike's fingertips curled into fists. The rage he knew so well, and that had gone out like a tide while he was with Wonka, was filling him once again, as it always did: the solution to almost every problem Mike faced. How dare that weirdo up and leave like that! As if he were, were—Mike's mind cast about for a word—worthy of doing whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it! He was a wacko! A loser! And he hadn't answered all of Mike's questions! By this time, Mike's face was as red as the carpet, but this time it was anger's brush that did the coloring.

"Ba, ba, ba, ba…" the sounds of frustration coming out of Mike's mouth were almost comical. Ahlia was hiding her face. His torment tied-tongue finally formed words to shout down the corridor.

"My NAME, Candyman, is not LITTLE BOY! It's MIKE!"

"And mine is WILLY!" came the echoing reply. "Have a happy life, MIKE!"

Mike, stunned, watched the Chocolate Room door sigh closed, wondering what other doors had closed to him. There wasn't a doubt in his mind, as heartfelt as that wish floating through the air had sounded, that as sure as there was a skull on Mike's tee-shirt, Willy Wonka had meant every word of his wish for Mike.

Ahlia beckoned.

"He says, have a happy life," Mike mumbled. "I'll try."

The End

This just for fun, not for profit, perhaps educational story features Charlie and the Chocolate Factory characters, with no copyright infringement intended.Thanks for reading, and, I hope, reviewing. Both brighten my day, as I hope this story has brightened yours. Thanks also, to those of you who favorite and follow this. Thank you.

There's a nod to Roseanne Roseannadana in this chapter. How could I resist, with a need to name the banana treat? May we all spare a thought for the late, great, Gilda Radner, Roseanne's inventor.

Squirrela: Thank you for your review. I am wondering though, how anyone might find '05 Wonka annoying. Oh, wait, Mike might! I hope you enjoyed this story.