willy wonka was something of a visionary, an inventor, a chocolate maker. he was a young man, yes, his forlorn appearance out of place in the city, yes, however his desire to make his name in the culinary world as a chocolate maker overpowered that. after all, what else did he need other than his chocolate, and a hatful of dreams?

famous last words, apparently.

it had turned out that he probably should have taken time out of his journies to learn how to read, because he'd somehow been scammed into working in a laundry owned by the nefarious mrs. scrubitt and bleacher, who wielded not only the guise of hospitable benefactors to weary wayfarers but also the shrewd machinations of deception and coercion; because no one ever bothers to read the fine print, do they.

his room was practically a little cell; a rickety bed, its frame groaning under the weight of neglect, bore testament to his dismal lodgings, its desolation further accentuated by the presence of barred windows, an emblem of his captivity. amidst this bleak panorama, a solitary desk, scarcely more than a relic of whatever it was before, housed his modest chocolate-making accoutrements, a poignant reminder of his deferred aspirations

"oh, hello there." wonka had cracked the door open slightly upon a rattling knock, expecting to find bleacher informing him that he owed them another 5,000 sovereigns on top of the prior 10,000 for breathing or something, but no, it was you.

"is that for me? it's certainly not a feat of fashion, i would suppose." he noted as his gaze flitted over the sartorial offering in the form of a laundry uniform, a garb destined to assimilate him among the indentured souls beneath mrs. scrubitt's watchful eye.

he was a rather handsome young man, quite out of place against the backdrop of dilapidated floorboards and garish wallpaper. "i apologise for my lack of manners," he added as he accepted the bundle of clothing from your arms. "who do i have the pleasure of speaking to?"