Ceramic DM R2M2: Revenge is a Dish Best Served Sticky
Miranda broke free of the jungle and stared up at the vine-shrouded ruins. Her goal was within her grasp, and yet she hesitated. It had been twenty years and thousands of miles since she’d last faced these creatures, since they’d dragged her from her father, kicking and screaming, into the bowels of their hideous lair. Their diminutive size and her desperation had made possible her escape, and but she’d never seen her father again. While she bore no physical reminders from that day, the memories haunted her.
The other members of her party had not fared so well. They survived, barely, but the experience left them scarred and twisted. Except for one. One had escaped with his life and the prize, and while Miranda didn’t hate him for his victory, she had never contacted him until several weeks ago.
That brief meeting had been spurred by a mysterious letter that had arrived in her mailbox one rainy day. It was addressed to “Miranda Piker”, which was odd, as she’d adopted her step-father’s name after her mother remarried. Still, she’d had no reason to be suspicious.
She nearly fainted when she saw it was a letter from her father, pleading with her to come to Africa and rescue her. She’d had no choice, really, but before she went she needed more information. She went to the only person who could possibly help: the winner of that damned prize.
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The ruins were riddled with small alcoves, doorways into living quarters, she presumed, doubtlessly homes for the vile creatures that had assaulted her years before. There’d been rumors back then that they were African pygmies, dyed to hide their origin. It had been dismissed as slander at the time, and racial sensibilities had prevented anyone from investigating further. Apparently the rumors were true.
She began working their way across the rickety rope bridge that seemed to be the only means of accessing their hive. Despite its appearance, the bridge was solid. Perhaps the ruins weren’t as abandoned as they seemed.
Still, she made it to the other side unhindered. The small hollows, primitive but well kept, were unoccupied, and she had to search for quite a while before she found one that contained a door leading into the depths. Prudence warred with caution in the dark passageway, and she finally decided to turn on a flashlight. The element of surprise wouldn’t matter if she broke her leg.
As she descended, she noticed her feet sticking to the floor, like at a movie theater after a Saturday matinee, and she heard a distant yet ominous booming. It soon resolved into a low chanting, the beginnings of a song that haunted her dreams.
Oompa loompa doompety doo
We're down here just waiting for you
Oompa loompa doompety dee
No sense in screaming or trying to flee
Who do you think you’re going to fool
Coming to our home with something to prove.
We had you once and let you get away
We promise that the same won’t happen today.
Oompa loompa doompety doh
I bet there’s something that you don’t know
But you’ll find out before this is through
Says the Oompa Loompa Doompety do
Miranda clutched the straps of her backpack nervously. She didn’t trust Charlie completely, but she’d had little choice. If he’d betrayed her – if the contents of the backpack didn’t work – then the Oompa Loompas would be dining on her bones.
Or worse.
She paused when she noticed a door up ahead. She flicked off the flashlight and slid it through her belt. She crouched in the dim light coming from the cracks around the door and shook off her pack.
“Ok, Charlie, let’s see if this works.”
She opened the flap and dumped the contents on the ground. The two blobs that plopped on the ground resembled marshmallows. They wobbled about for a few seconds, disoriented after their long ride, and then turned to look at her. Well, face her. Or something.
The puffy orbs lacked eyes or external features, the smooth surface marred only by a thin crease. Unlike their darker cousins, the albescent knids had teeth, and one of them opened its maw to reveal quite a number of them. Miranda hoped they wouldn’t turn on her.
Fortunately, the Oopma Loompas chose that moment to start singing again, closer and louder, and the creatures reacted like knids on Christmas morning. They zipped towards the light and squeezed through gap under the door.
Oompa loompa doompety doo
Come on inside, we’ve a present for you
Oompa loompa doompety dee
Come through the door, you’ll like what you see
What did you wish for in bed at night?
Whose voice did you hear when you turned out the light?
Whatever it was you’ll find it today
And we assure you everything won’t be okay.
Oompa loompa doompety AAAGGGHH!!!
The screaming continued for what seemed an eternity. Finally Miranda cracked the door and peeked through. Her stomach turned at the sight of the tangerine-tinted abattoir. In the middle lay two bloated and supremely satiated knids, titian blotches decorating their pale hides.
She didn’t notice the other occupant of the room until she crossed the threshold.
“Miranda, I continue to underestimate you. ”
The silky voice was the same, as was the finery, but that’s where any semblance ended between the chocolatier and the skeletal figure casually resting upon a pile of treasure.
“Where is he, damn you! Where’s my father? ”
“Patience, dear girl. He’s here, and still alive, which is more than I can say for my poor minions. I simply must know where you found those exquisite knids?” it said as pulled a handkerchief from its pocket and wiped a bit of Oompa Loompa blood from the silk tie around its neck.
Miranda sensed that her allies were too busy digesting their feast to be interested in desert.
“Charlie loaned them to me, if you must know,” she answered, stalling for time. “He used them for the last round of labor negotiations.”
“Ah, I wondered how he was keeping expenses so low. Well, time enough for that later. Let’s go; I’ve something you’ll want to see,” he said, as he grabbed her arm and dragged her through another doorway.
Miranda fought, but despite her captors lack of any tendons or muscles, she found it impossible to break his bony grip. Eventually she stopped resisting and allowed him to lead her deeper into the dungeon.
“Why, Wonka? Why now, after all these years?”
“Oh, my sweet, what are a few years to someone who can live forever?”
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Eventually they came to a natural cavern. In the center was a large vat, its contents bubbling. The fire below it hissed and popped every time the viscous liquid spilled over the lip of the pot. At first she thought it was raining, the absurd notion banished when she noticed the steam that billowed from the pot condensing against the cool stone ceiling. Were it not for the small hole in the roof serving as a chimney, the entire room would have been overwhelmed with smoke from the fire.
Dangling above the vat hung a cage. A human figure – male, judging by the long beard -- slumped inside, its wet, ratty clothing hanging loosely on its withered frame.
“Miranda?” the wretch asked, “Is that you?”
“Father!” she cried, rushing towards the pot only to be yanked back the Wonka’s unyielding grip on her arm.
He hauled her before one of the many gem-encrusted stalagmites that adorned the cave. A chain had been wrapped around its base several times, and Wonka locked manacles dangled from each end around her wrists.
“Not so fast, my dear. You have something I need. Give it to me, and I will set your father free at long last.”
“What, damn you? What do you want?”
“Your flesh. Not all, mind you. An arm’s worth, or a leg, will do nicely. A fair trade, all things considered.”
Miranda stared at him in horror, and only then noticed the table behind him on which a number of sharp implements had been placed.
“Come now, you weren’t speechless that day in the factory. You were full of righteous indignation; I remember it if it were yesterday.
“And had you not managed to escape, I’d still be there. But I needed your flesh to power the ritual. Without the spell to maintain my body, I had no choice but to return here.
“I turned the factory over to that goody two-shoes Charlie so that he’d keep making my addictive sweets, and I’d be assured of a good supply of fat children to snack upon when I staged my return.”
Wonka turned his back to her and began sorting through the saws and blades.
“I much prefer England to here, I must say. That horrid Tutsi witch doctor may have taught me the secret to immortality, but I really cannot abide Africa.”
With Wonka momentarily distracted, Miranda reached into her pocket and pulled out a round, purple candy. Unable to reach her mouth because of the manacles, she started to panic. When she saw Wonka settle on a particularly nasty bone saw, she knew she had no choice. Wonka turned just in time to see her flip the candy in the air, the purple glimmering in the crimson light from the fire as it arced towards the ceiling and then back down.
With a lunge and a gulp, Miranda snagged the candy mid-air. Immediately her skin turned a vibrant shade of eggplant, and she began to swell. Wonka barely had time to cross the room before her expanding form popped the shackles. She turned on her erstwhile captor.
Wonka skidded to a halt and tried to retreat, but Miranda managed to grab him. With a scream, she hurtled him towards the kettle, shattering the skeleton against the cast iron.
Miranda spit out the Three Course Meal candy, and within moments she’d resumed her normal form and hue. Charlie had warned her not to swallow it lest she explode.
Rummaging through her backpack, she brought out a flask, the last of Charlie’s gifts. She removed the stopper and took a swig of Fizzy Lifting Pop. She rose slowly off the ground. When she reached the ceiling, she pushed herself towards the cage. Grabbing the chain, she pulled herself down, her father reaching through the bars to help once she got near.
A rustling sound below got her attention.
On the ground, the bones of the undead industrialist shimmied and danced across the floor, collecting in a pile beside one of the stalagmites. She noticed a large ruby shard embedded in the stone that pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat. Within seconds Wonka stood re-assembled, and he charged towards his former prisoners.
Together, Miranda and her father managed to force open the rusted door. Miranda clung to the side and handed her father the flask, indicating he should take a drink and then head for the chimney.
“Go, father. I’ll be right behind you.”
Her father tipped the flask and handed it back. At once he, too, began floating upward. Keeping one hand on the cage, Miranda slowly rose behind him.
A loud clang accompanied a searing pain in her scalp. She looked down, and saw that the monster, balanced precariously on the lip of the pot, had slammed the cage door shut, catching her by her long hair. She screamed in pain and rage, and, holding on to the chain with one hand, yanked at her trapped tresses. The rusted metal refused to lessen its grip, but the motion caused Wonka to lose his footing. With a cry, he tumbled into the sticky goo.
Her relief was again short-lived. As soon as his bony hand had disappeared below the surface, the red stone started pulsing, and soon rivulets of goop began dripping over the sides of the poot and oozing across the floor. Soon a reformed Wonka was once again striding towards her. She redoubled her efforts, her father pulling himself down the chain to help steady her. The cage began to sway back and forth, the tortured fastenings groaning in protest.
With a shriek, the hook connecting the cage to the chain broke. The enclosure fell towards the pot, ripping a long clump of hair free as it went. Blood poured down Miranda’s face, and when she put hand to her head, she realized the snare had taken some of her scalp with it.
Her last sight as she retreated up the chimney was of Wonka, reaching fruitlessly for the patch of left-behind skin, only to once more tumble into the molten candy.
She wondered how many liches it would take to get to the center of a Tutsi pot.
