It was a quiet suburban backyard at night, the porch light throwing a faint glow over the lawn while crickets chirped. Then a sudden crash from the bushes — branches snapping, something or someone landing hard — shattered the stillness.
Inside the house, Marie stood at the kitchen sink, late thirties, sharp-eyed and unbothered, smoking a cigarette. She froze mid-drag, lips tightening. "What the f*ck..." she muttered. She stubbed the cigarette out in a coffee mug, took a pistol from the counter, and moved toward the back door.
Moments later, in the backyard, Fickelgruber groaned from a crushed bush. He was late thirties, British and disheveled; he sat up dazed and blinking. When he looked up, Marie was standing over him with a gun pointed at his face.
"Who are you? And what the f*ck are you doing in my backyard?" she demanded.
"Uhm... I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot," Fickelgruber said nervously and shifted slightly. Marie raised the gun a fraction higher.
"I don't care about that. I care about what you're doing in my yard."
"I would love to tell you. Honestly. I just—don't actually know."
Marie narrowed her eyes and, after a moment, lowered the gun a fraction. "Wait… do I know you from somewhere?"
"No ma'am, I don't believe we've me—" he started.
She pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. I'm thinking… Wait! I got it! Are you that British bloke from the news?"
"I might be? I still don't know," he answered.
"Yes! You are! Ah—what's your name... Slugworth?"
"No. How do you know him?" he asked.
"Like I said..." Marie stepped off him, helped him to his feet, and dusted him off with a critical glance. "You were on the news."
Fickelgruber tugged at his tattered suit. "Oh. I see now. I know what happened."
"What happened then?" Marie asked.
"I'll tell you. But first—can we talk inside? It's freezing out here."
"Fine. You look horrible, by the way."
"Wow. Thanks," he said, and together they walked toward the house.
Later, at the kitchen table, Marie set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him. "Well, first off — I'm not Slugworth. I'm Felix Fickelgruber, his associate," he said, offering a hand. She shook it.
"Marie Azzopardi. Pleasure."
"Likewise. Now — I assume you heard about the whole... Wonka situation?"
"When you flew away because of the chocolate?" she prompted.
"(deadpan) Yes. When I flew away because of the chocolate." He dug into the food. "I was unconscious for a while. When I woke up — I was falling. Into your bushes."
"…Really? You've been up there for years. How are you not dead?" Marie asked.
"Believe me, I ask myself the same question," he said, glancing around her dark, wood-heavy kitchen. "You've got a nice place. What's your job?"
"I run a luxury chocolate business."
"What are the chances? Me too."
"Yeah, I know. You're, like, famous."
"I suppose. You probably idolize that peasant Wonka."
"Are you kidding? Wonka's a terrible chocolatier and probably a murderer."
"…You know, you're not wrong," he admitted.
"We should get revenge," Marie said, suddenly sharp.
"Not a bad idea. How?" Fickelgruber asked.
"All in good time," she replied.
They settled into an uneasy companionship: him grateful for warmth, her amused by the absurdity of his arrival. "Honestly, this is the warmest welcome I've had in... possibly ever," he told her.
"Don't get used to it. I still might shoot you."
"Fair enough," he said, tapping his fingers together. Marie lit another cigarette; the two of them sat in the smoke for a beat.
"So. You were saying—floating? For years?" she asked.
"Apparently. I remember orbiting for a while. Lost consciousness. Then—boom."
"And you don't remember anything in between?"
"Nothing. Just a vague dream."
"You're not right in the head, are you?"
"Oh, very much not. Comes with the profession," he said.
"So you were Slugworth's guy."
"Fickelgruber. But yes. We were rivals of Wonka. Business was good—until he decided candy needed to be... whimsical." He made a face. "And sent you into the stratosphere."
"Precisely. Unorthodox, and frankly, rude," she agreed.
"So why do you want revenge?" Marie asked.
"Who said I do?" he deflected.
Marie looked at him with a hard, knowing expression. He shrugged, then said quietly, "I mean, yes, he ruined my life. Killed my business partners. Trapped me in atmospheric limbo. But I'm not angry."
"No?" she asked.
"I'm furious. But I'm also cold and tired."
Marie smirked. "Good. You'll need that anger. It'll keep you warm when things get ugly."
"Oh, are things going to get ugly?" he asked.
"If we do this right? Very," she said.
When he pressed, "You don't seem like the revenge type," she simply replied, "That's the trick. No one ever does." He hesitated before asking, "What happened to you?"
Marie's eyes flickered, guarded. "What do you mean?"
"You've got that look. Like someone took something from you. Something sweet."
She stared at him; the air thickened. "Don't try to analyze me, Brit Boy."
"Fair enough," he said, conceding the point. She snuffed out her cigarette. "You done eating?"
"I could probably eat twelve more eggs, but yes."
"Good. Come on. I'll show you the guest room."
"You're too kind."
"I really, really am not," she answered as she left him to follow.
In the guest room she showed him the bed and the rules — little things she expected a guest to respect. He sighed, lay down, turned the ceiling over in his eyes. When he finally sat up he noticed a bookshelf filled with odd titles: Confections of Power: Sugar Empires & Secret Wars; Chemical Flavoring: Legal and Otherwise; The Golden Boy: A Biography of Willy Wonka — pages marked, scribbled on, stabbed with a pen; Missing Persons of 1942. Not exactly calming bedtime reading.
A drawer, cracked open, caught his eye. He knew he shouldn't, but curiosity won; he checked the doorway, opened the drawer, and found a framed photo. On the back, scrawled in red pen, were the words: YOU RUINED ME B*TCH. The image itself froze him: a younger Marie and a younger Wonka, their faces near each other, as if in a secret that had since shattered.
"Who on earth is that..." he breathed. The silence pressed in; lightfoot steps passed outside. He dropped the picture back into the drawer and flopped down, heart thrumming. A knock sounded. Marie opened the door before he could hide anything.
"Are you still awake? That's a stupid question — I know you are, I could hear you," she said, looking irritated.
"My apologies. I was just observing the room…" he offered.
Marie's eyes flicked to the drawer left ajar. "Are you kidding me? I had one rule!"
"It's not what it looks like. I swear I didn't look too far into the drawer, only saw a few pens and sheets of paper," he protested, walking around the bed.
She put her hands on the counter and sighed. "Stop lying, I know you saw the picture."
"Yes, you're correct I did see the picture. What… What happened?" he asked.
"I'm not f*cking telling you. I met you like five hours ago. Here." She set a mug on the bedside table. "It's tea and valerian. Get to sleep." Then she left.
Later that morning, in the kitchen, she stirred coffee with a cigarette between her fingers while Fickelgruber stood awkwardly in the doorway.
"Hey, Miss Azzopardi?" he ventured.
She turned to him, up and down, took a drag. "I would really just like to apologise for last night. You're right, you had one rule and I broke it. But I'm still not ashamed to ask what happened…"
"You really won't just give it up will you?" Marie asked.
He shook his head. She exhaled and told him the short version: before Wonka went to London he'd visited Australia. She had met him and they'd talked about chocolate. She showed him her ingredients; one in particular caught his eye — hoverflies.
"Wait, you mean the bug that made Hoverchocs?" he said, incredulous.
"Yes. He took them and ran off, took everything from me but left before I could tell him that those specific hoverflies would lay eggs that became a live source for the person who would eat it," she said, voice hard. "I don't understand how it works but it just did. I didn't know it could sustain someone for that long."
Silence. She took a drag. "Do you understand? Understand why I think he's such a horrible person. Understand why he ruined my life and deserves to be dead."
"Yes, I do, thank you for telling me," Fickelgruber said.
She put her hand out. "So are you in? Are we gonna get revenge on him?"
He took it. "Deal."
That evening, she sat at her vanity putting on earrings while he lingered awkwardly nearby. "Is that what you're wearing?" she asked him.
"Well… I don't have anything else do I?" he replied.
She tapped her lipstick container with a manicured nail and rose. "Well I don't have anything for you." She rifled through her closet of maroon and velvet and vintage cuts.
"Oh no I'm not saying I need your clothes," he said.
"Well you can go out wearing that," she said, then spun to face him. "Besides, what's wrong with my clothes?"
"Burgundy is just not my colour," he confessed.
"It's maroon, by the way," she corrected. "What else do you want me to do?"
"I could just wear this?" he offered, waving an insufficient ensemble.
"Ha! Please. I have a reputation for my clothes, and you're not ruining it. Besides, it's a fancy place," she said sharply but with a hint of amusement.
He ran his hands along her rack. "I still don't know why we have to go out to discuss plans."
"Because I'm all out of dark rum, and it will be fun to show you around, you know?" she replied.
He groaned. "Okay fine, but I'm going out wearing this."
She shrugged. "I don't even care enough anymore."
They walked the dim, lamp-lit streets toward the bar she had in mind. "When are you going to tell me where we are actually going?" he asked.
"Just wait, we are almost there," she said.
"Fine, gosh." He looked around, surprised by a gentler side of this Australian town. "It's actually pretty nice out here, I wouldn't expect it from Australia," he observed.
"I'm ignoring that. Yeah, it's nice—until you hit the tourist traps. Then it's all dirt and... the poors—" she began, and he gagged. She stopped, incredulous. "What the f*ck?"
"That word. I can't stand it," he said.
"What, 'poor'?" she asked.
"(gags again)," he said.
"Jesus. That's messed up," she muttered and kept walking. They reached a bar with a neon sign: Le Bijou.
"Here we are. Le Bijou," Marie announced.
"Wow, this is a nice place," he said.
"Wish you wore something nicer?" she teased.
"No, of course not," he replied. Heads turned as they entered; whispers followed them to their corner booth.
"Why are they whispering?" he murmured.
"I told you, I have a reputation," she said.
"I thought you meant your outfits. Everyone's looking at you like you killed someone," he observed.
"It's a story for another time," she replied, and the waiter arrived to greet them.
"Good evening, Mrs Azzopardi, and you are with?" he asked politely.
"It's Fickelgruber," Fickelgruber answered.
"Nice to meet you. Are we going to eat anything or just the usual, ma'am?" the waiter asked.
"You know it's the usual," Marie snapped. "Two coke and rums."
Fickelgruber had started with water, but Marie scolded him into currency he loved. "Thanks for that I suppose," he muttered when the waiter left.
"If I was floating in air for years the first thing I would want to do would be to get a drink," Marie said.
"I guess you're right," he conceded.
They debated plans but mostly let the idea of revenge take the shape of the night: humiliating Wonka, making him the butt of every tabloid between London and Lima, humiliating him until children laughed. "What if we ruin his reputation? It may take a bit of planning, but we have the time," Fickelgruber suggested.
Marie raised her glass. "Okay, so it's settled. We will ruin Wonka's reputation and hopefully, his life! Now let's just enjoy the rest of the night."
"Shouldn't we be planning though?" he asked.
"Okay, narc. Do you know how long it takes to make a whole plan, find a boat to London, hopefully private, then sail to London? That's going to take forever and we won't have time to relax and drink," she said.
"Actually, there's lovely bars in London, great to rest," he offered.
"That's not the point; the point is, I'm tired and haven't gone to a bar in ages. Okay?" she said. He nodded, they clinked glasses, and they drank.
A few hours later, laughter settled into a quieter conversation. "So I know that you knew Wonka, and he took everything from you blah blah blah, but I know there is more to that story," Fickelgruber said, leaning in.
Marie toyed with her glass. "You're not wrong to think that."
"Then what else happened? I want to know the full story," he pressed.
She told him the rest: one of Wonka's first stops on his grand harvest tour had been Australia. When she met him she had been young and vulnerable, and he had been charming. She had fallen in love.
Two decades earlier, down in her basement among the ingredient shelves, a younger Wonka had peered at the jars she kept with both reverence and mischief. "So this is your stuff?" he'd asked.
"Yeah! I have my shaved coconut, pink salt, orange slices and oh!" she had replied, picking up a jar full of odd insects. "These are hoverflies; they're from a jungle near Mumbai."
"May I see them?" he had asked.
"Yes of course! Just please be careful they are very rare," she had said.
He tapped the glass and wondered aloud what they did. Marie had explained: hoverflies laid edible eggs which, once hatched, caused the eater to float. She'd started to explain more when he was already cajoling her. "Do you mind if I take these back to my place to study them?" he had asked.
Marie had hesitated. "Uhm, I don't know…"
"C'mon honey, don't you trust me?" he had coaxed.
"Oh, yeah! Of course I trust you! You can study them—just I should tell you—"
"Okay I'll bring them back tomorrow, love you honey," he said, leaving as if everything were still the sunniest possibility.
Back at the bar in the present, Fickelgruber shook his head. "Wow, that's messed up."
"I know, right?" Marie said. "After he left and never came back, I vowed to devote my life to ruining his, but obviously, his empire is a bit bigger than mine."
"Well I vow that we will burn his golden empire to the ground," Fickelgruber said, finishing her resolution as if it were already a promise sealed between them.
They finished their drinks. The night outside carried on, indifferent, while the two of them sat in a corner plotting small absurdities and large humiliations that might, one day, topple a man who had taken more than ingredients; he had taken something from Marie she could never get back.