Zoompa Loompa the Oompa Loompa
Title: Zoompa Poompa the Oompa Loompa
Fandom: Willie Wonka
Series: Ruining Your Childhood
Characters: Original Character, Willie Wonka
Pairing: OC/Wonka
Orientation: Gen
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,400
Warnings: Darkfic! I mean it, this is some heavy stuff
Prompts: Kinkbingo fill: “Genital Torture”
Listen up; I’m going to tell you my story here. I don’t have much time; they will be coming for me soon.
My name is Zoompa Poompa. Go ahead and laugh, everyone else does the first two dozen or so times they hear it. Zoompa Poompa the Oompa Loompa. My parents had a strange sense of humor. They also liked to torture me. I mean that literally. They used to tie me to a tree and poke me with sticks. Or cover me with sticky sweet and let the blue blugs nibble on me for hours while I was tied to a sticky bush.
You’ve probably guessed that I didn’t like my parents very much. When the rampaging herd of snozzywangers charged through our village and Mom and Pop Poompa got all smushed under their great big galumphing hooves, their darling daughter Zoompa here wasn’t crying a river, I’ll tell you that!
Anyway, once Torturer #1 and Torturer #2 were out of the way, things were pretty sweet in Loompaland for yours truly. I had the hut to myself. I wasn’t getting poked with sticks anymore. The blue blugs were going after Joola the fat kid instead of me. Joola lived in the hut with the hole in the thatch and the broken pottery shards and bone fragments littering the front path. He was naturally sticky; I don’t think Joola’s body ever touched water. This was the prize I had won in the marriage lottery; Joola, or Jumbo Joola, as he came to be known. The village elders all put their heads together and decided that I needed to be married off and they chose Jumbo Joola for me. Did I mention the village elders really didn’t like me at all?
I was contemplating burning down the village. I would have done it too, if the whangdoodles hadn’t come along, chasing after a few stray hornswogglers. I think the guys that picked the location for our village must have been smoking some of the yacto weed that grows wild beyond the floomi trees. I mean, really? They built our village right between the biggest, greenest meadow in the valley and the only watering hole for days. Brilliant plan, village ancestors, brilliant plan, I say.
So, the entire village got flattened to the ground, again. The whangdoodles saved me the trouble of figuring out where the best place to toss the torch would be.
The entire tribe was huddled around the shards of what used to be the Tell Me Stone - a big rock that would be rolled and decisions made based on which side the damned thing fell onto when it stopped rolling. They obviously did not have a thought in one of their little green heads. I was about to step forward and tell them all what a pack of imbeciles they were being and that we should move the village further up the valley when this giant pale-skinned guy walks out of the woods and comes over to stare in confusion at the Tell Me Stone with the rest of them.
They managed to convey in sign language and an elaborate game of charades that the Tell Me Stone was broken and they didn't know what to do. The guy, Wonka, in case you hadn’t caught on to that by now, pulls a coin out of his pocket and flips it. The village elders went nuts and proclaimed him a Tell Me God. So of course, when he suggested the tribe go away with him, the elders agreed.
I never wanted to go to the chocolate factory. I never wanted to make candy for an insane slave driver. I never wanted to wear ugly clothes that did nothing to show off my knees. I hated the obnoxious message songs meant to twist morality around in tune that Wonka made us sing. I always sang different words and threw off the rest of the tribe purposely. They hated me for that.
In short, I hated Wonka, as much as I hated Mom and Pop Poompa, probably more, since I never considered killing them directly, and well, you know what happened with Wonka. But I digress.
The thing about old Willie that most people just don’t get is that he was a kinky and perverted old bastard. He shtuped most of the tribe at one point or another. I heard there were orgies on that boat of his, traveling up and down the chocolate river, having themselves jolly old sex parties.
When he came after me one night when I was minding my business, shining a purple lollipop, I knew someone had to do something about that asshole. It seemed it was up to me. Every other orange ass from Loompaland thought Wonka hung the moon. I made no secret of the fact that I hated the old coot. They hated me for that too.
It was stupidly easy to drug his tea. It was trickier getting his unconscious, giant, soon-to-be-corpse onto the wagon out of the factory. I took him down to the empty storeroom in the warehouse that was only used seasonally to hold the excess Wonka Jelly Bean overstock until Easter.
He made the first pass. Let’s make that perfectly clear. He came on to me. He asked for it, really.
So, I stripped his clothes off and tossed them in the incinerator. He was even uglier naked. I tied him up with some baling wire I found in the warehouse. Using one of the giant fish-hooks that hung from the ceiling and ran along a little track to make moving heavy bales and crates easier, I strung the candy making demon up so that his feet were dangling in the air. He wasn’t going anywhere when he woke up.
I wanted him to wake up. I intended to have fun with him. He made the first move, remember.
While he dozed, I made my preparations. As soon as he woke, I climbed up the ladder I had erected beside him and held up the bucket of hot melted lollipop, purple. He looked a little surprised to be where he was. I liked the irony of that, by the way. Make sure you noted it down that Zoompa was quite clever. I looked him in the eyes and told him it was time that he paid the piper for all his shenanigans, for all the things he had done to hurt, humiliate and debauch the Oompa Loompas.
I poured the liquid lollipop over each of his nipples. He screamed. I liked that. It made me wet between the legs. I took a few steps down the ladder and poured more over his giant wangdoodle. He screamed more and writhed on the hook. His pride and joy wasn’t standing tall anymore. I was so wet, I had to put the bucket down and rub myself a little.
I climbed down and surveyed my work, the candy already cooling and beginning to harden. Wonka whimpered and hung there, too out of it to speak. That was good; his tongue would just spin more lies. I picked up a lollipop stick. One of the giant ones from the chocolate river landing, you know the ones, almost as tall as an Oompa Loompa. I wielded it like a bat, and knocked his balls around for a bit. It made me laugh. I kept hitting him with the stick. I liked it.
Who knew that meting out justice would be fun?
Fine, go ahead, frown. You weren't there, you didn’t know.
They’re coming, I hear them singing their new little song about me and how much they hate me.
You probably know the rest. The recall of all the Wonka Bars worldwide made all the newspapers and news programs. “Wonka Bars with Real Wonka!” “Cities in Chaos as Children Cannibalize Candy King!” My favorite was in the NY Post, “Wonka’s Willie Went Where?”
So there you have the tale of Zoompa Poompa the Oompa Loompa that dared to stand up to the crazy old candy making rapist slaver. So what if I had a little erotic fun before I did him? The point is, I did him. And my people, my poor, pathetically stupid people, are free at last.
Yeah, make sure you make the check for this exclusive interview out to Jumbo Joola, he deserves a break, poor fat kid.