Wonking some Willys

I do not own willy wonka and the chocolate factory or the pagemaster or any of their characters. I had a 10 minute time limit to write this and wasn't allowed to edit, as per the bet. Also bear in mind that it was 3 in the morning when I wrote this, so it's worse than a wangdoodle's breath.

BLAME MY FRIENDS, NOT ME!





Charlie sighed. 

He pushed the big red button on the large impressive machine in front of him, frowning the whole while. A minute later, a tear began to fall. It rolled down his cheek, past his tattered uniform that he had been wearing his whole life long, and finally dripped to the floor. “Wow, my life sucks.” He said.

Charlie had lived in the root beer factory for as long as he could remember. He didn’t have a mommy, or a daddy either. He had been raised a man named “The Pagemaster”.  The Pagemaster had found him on the factory steps when he was just a little baby.

Charlie didn’t ever see the pagemaster except at meal times, because he said that Charlie could not waste time talking when he could be working.  And work he did. Day after day, Charlie’s job was to push the big red button on the control panel every time he saw a root beer pass by on the conveyer belt.

And that’s the way Charlie’s life had been, until one day, a strange man came into the factory. He was dressed in a purple coat and top hat, with golden curly hair. He carried a colorful cane, but Charlie didn’t think he looked old enough to need help walking. 

“Heeeeeeeeeelllllloooooooooow” the strange man called as he poked his head through the door to the factory. “I’m a health inspector, and it’s time to check the factory to make sure it’s not putting any alcohol in the pop again!

“Charlie looked arouspecialnd. “What’s alcohol?” asked, pushing the big red button as another bottle of root beer passed the conveyer belt.

The man spotted Charlie and walked over, twirling his can as he did. “Alcohol? It’s an acidic substance that intoxicates adults and makes them do silly things, like-Errrr, never mind” he said as he looked at Charlie up and down. “Are you in charge here?” He asked.

No, mr. Pagemaster is”. Charlie said, and another tear had fallen.

“Do you work here?” the strange man asked in mild shock.

“Yes” said Charlie. “I have nowhere else to go, so I have to work in order to eat and drink the bad batches of rootbeer that Mr. The Pagemaster thinks taste like pepsi. The pagemaster says only oompa loompa drinks pepsi”. Charlie said with a sniffle. “I DON’T WANT TO BE AN OOPMA LOOMPA!” he suddenly screamed. “THEY HAVE SKIN CANCER!!!!”

“Hmm,” said the strange man. “Well, you could work in my factory, and I promise you that there is absolutely no root beer or pepsi in there. At my factory, the workers and I drink only lemon juice, to counter act all of the sweet chocolate we consume. All you have to do is perform a few.... special tasks for me.” Really?” Charlie perked up. “What would I do?”

“First of all, you’d have to give up all of your rights as a human being by singing this contract. He said, producing a piece of paper from the crotch of his pants. This means that I’m not obligated to give you food, water, or shelter for as long as you’re my slave.”

Why the hell would I do that?”Charlie asked, backing away.

“Because I haven’t had sex in 23 years, and I’m desperate, so desperate that I’m willing to kidnap children who don’t have a child youth advocate to work for them because they have no parents and are utterly alone and unloved because they’re ugly and have the voice of teen pop sensation Justin Bieber.  NOW TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!