#//slightly less small emu be upon ye

[holdmeicant]

A Newsboy and his Bullets (Willy Wonka x OC) | CHAPTER 1

A/N: Finally, some good f*cking motivation. @willymywonkers

PRESENT DAY

Well, here he was for probably the hundredth time like a school kid on his first day. 

    Elmer Stanley watched the gates open, fresh for the mind and work and only welcoming for the sweet-teeth. His honeymoon-like relationship with Willy Wonka’s factory never seemed to fade at all. The excited chatter, the many hurried footsteps, the embroidered ‘Wonka’ on crimson-themed uniforms. All a wild fever dream. 

    If you’ve ever experienced the common Monday disease, workers could sincerely inform you that, here, there was no such thing. It was guaranteed Monday-to-Friday bliss. Although, Elmer admitted, the employees here had a range of personalities, some contradicting the factory’s friendliness. It shouldn’t have mattered, and, well, didn’t. He smirked at his particular talent in being reclusive towards most workers was respectfully convenient. For the best, he thought, should he be fumbling over words, or choosing them wrongly. If he was honest, most workers would hate the thought of being pestered by a man twenty-or-so years younger than themselves. Yes, Elmer hadn’t once come across an employee his age. You couldn’t count Willy Wonka himself, nor his intimidating Vice President, whom Elmer could tell was slightly unhinged just as Mr. Wonka was, though quite good-looking.

    By the time everyone had settled on the other side of those giant, metallic doors, Elmer was at once stopped by the usual scent of hot chocolate licking his lips. A long, thin corridor could not stop the hot air from reaching the gathered crowd at the entrance, who, like Elmer, was granted olfactory pleasure.

    “Good morning, my dear workers,” Mr. Wonka began through loudspeakers; a usual routine. “Please enter. Nevermind those who stayed for both Saturday and Sunday - I hope you all had a wonderful weekend and are well-rested.” (Elmer chuckled at this). “I assume we all know the importance my factory holds in next month’s upcoming event. So, having mentioned that, I suggest that in these three weeks we mustn’t dilly or dally! That’s all from me. Good luck to you all!”

    And that was all from him. For a moment, he could imagine how children’s jaws would drop at the amount of brown mixture they saw in action. How their eyes would bulge tremendously, how their hands would tremble surreptitiously. The heightened commotion of the factory, the bustling workers and their wondrous stresses. 

    And for a moment, Elmer was that child.

    A newsboy. Quite a funny excuse for a job. Almost as though Mr. Wonka had invited him for the sake of his own ego. And no, he was not necessarily mad, merely… envious. Envious at the fact that, even in the slightest sense, every (and he meant every) worker but him was able to smother themselves in the brown or red or pink every second. He ought to ask Mr. Wonka why this was the case; after all, it was a year ago the chocolatier had learned of nearly the extent of Elmer’s talent. 

    But still, a newsboy. Perhaps another exceedingly inviting thing about this job was visiting Mr. Wonka’s office on a daily basis. It was rather long in shape, a sleek wooden black table in its centre. Your feet would be blessed upon walking along a crimson carpet. It was almost like a silent, flash-less red carpet walk every time. And each time Elmer would knock softly at the entrance to hear a soft ‘come in’, well… to say it was the highlight of his day was an understatement. 

   “Handling the press again, are we, Mr. Stanley?” 

    “Joe!”

    Joe Bucket, a man about sixty years-old, was each morning the first person to greet Elmer. He was about as kind as a capybara, and easily one of Wonka’s most hard-working and loyal workers. 

    “Afraid so,” Elmer panted as he watched Joe drop his coat onto the floor. Wonka’d promised this was the only room he’d leave untidy, as well as safe enough to leave all our belongings in. “It’s the usual, sir. Don’t suppose I’m useful for anything else at the moment!”

    “Oh, just you wait, boy.” Joe Bucket cast Elmer a sincere look with his large emu eyes as he pat Elmer’s broad shoulder. “This time ‘round, he’ll be needing five times the workers!”

    Elmer hoped that was the case. It was nearing Easter, which meant the Wonka business was exceptionally busy producing a hundred times more of the cocoa than other sweets. They were to continue the weekend’s work, speedily. Elmer additionally  wondered why in such a fictitiously creative environment was there no requirement to sign a contract, being exposed to such products. But it was left unspoken about. 

    Like always, Elmer was to run the daily errands: papers and any letters to Mr. Wonka, his Vice President, and deliver advertisements for the company ‘round town. It was safe to say that though Mr. Wonka was obviously head of the business, he showed little to no resentment nor annoyance towards Elmer. Again, possibly the age factor. And Elmer absolutely despised small talk, which meant that Mr. Wonka kept it interesting; sometimes humorous.

    “Mr. Wonka?” Elmer placed today’s paper on his boss’ sleek, chestnut desk. Indoors, Mr. Wonka couldn’t care less whether you kept your hat on; he himself rarely was seen without his.

    “Yeah?” the chocolatier answered.

    Elmer peered over, noticing Mr. Wonka’s interest in the particular headline Wonka Business Headed For Further Prosperity As Easter Approaches. Like he didn’t already know! Feeding his own ego, was he?

     “May I ask you a question? A serious question?”

    Mr. Wonka’s eyes didn’t leave the paper. “Hate to break it to you, Mr. Stanley – you just did. Twice, in fact.”

    “Right.” Elmer fiddled with his newsboy cap. Conversing with this man in any form meant you were treading on thin ice with words. “May I ask two more questions?”

    Mr. Wonka looked up from the paper, rosy lips curled to one side. “Go ahead.”

   “Erm, why exactly am I merely the newsboy of the factory? Aren't there jobs which surely require –”

    “Question limit has exceeded,” Mr. Wonka interrupted. Those heart-shaped lips spread to an even wider smile, unmistakably, yet sardonically, tormenting. “Why, because you’re a young man.” 

    Elmer frowned. “But I’m older than you.”

    “By, like, a year, yeah.” 

    “Three years,” corrected Elmer hastily.

   Mr. Wonka jested with such passion. “Hey, by the way, did you pass all required exams to run a candy business at the age of seventeen?” He propped his elbows up on his desk, hands clasped together. Eager to be swaggering.

    “... No, sir.”

    “That’s what I thought.”

     A newsboy nonetheless. Elmer raced through extensive arms of the factory’s wonders after his senseless conversation with Mr. Wonka, continuing the list of his duties. There was a small look at the Nut-Shelling room (which indeed saw its occupants hot-headed with stress), and a newly-developed room dubbed The Unmeltable (where, Elmer expected, a rise in sales for Easter’s warm day would occur). At least, now, the pondering was off his chest. He was left with the inevitable decision of accepting the fact that Mr. Wonka was not offering him any upgraded position as of yet, which still was damaging to a twenty-six year-old presented with explicit processes. Swallow the pill, Elmer, swallow the pill. At least you have a job in Wonka’s factory. 

    It wasn’t long until Elmer, in the midst of sorting mails in his small and largely secluded room, was interrupted by a soft knock on his door. 

    “Yes?” 

    Standing at his door, prim and proper, strangely mystifying, was Wonka’s Vice President. Her coffee curls bobbed over the  clipboard she clutched in her arms. The rectangular spectacles she wore were either too small, or her eyes were too big; nevertheless, this was hidden by the fact that they rested slightly lower on her nose bridge.

    “Miss Fiddle,” he blinked, merely startled. 

    “Figgle,” she corrected kindly. Her smile wasn’t the phony, humorous kind he was used to from Wonka. The corners of her mouth pointed downwards rather than up.

    Elmer gulped. This lady, surely, had no intention of projecting some sort of fear onto her employee. Yet a wave of apprehension ran through his bones.

    “Miss Figgle. Right. Sorry.” Elmer straightened himself and attempted to focus on who would be on the receiving end of his enriching maladroitness. “This must be … important. We’ve - we’ve never actually spoken, one-on-one.”

    “No, indeed, we have not.” The Vice President leaned on the doorway’s rim, slowly rubbing her temple as she tilted her head sideways. She was certainly drained as hell. “Not anyone’s fault. I believe this past year has been quite chaotic.”

    Elmer raised an eyebrow at her lack of intention in cutting to the chase. But after what seemed like a long minute, she removed her spectacles and cast Elmer a somewhat distant look. 

    “You see, you’re going to bear some good news tonight, Mr. Stanley.”