Wonka and the Whipped Cream Factory

Slugworth's

     My arms and eyes are equally tired as I push down on the lever over and over. I check my watch, 9:28. Only about half an hour to go and I'm free to leave.
     The metal machine I work on groans and resists every push of the lever. It's body is covered in rust, and the building stinks of smoke. A metallic taste hangs in the back of my throat, my mouth dry and my stomach rumbling.
     Slugworths is like that, though. Miserable and dull, yet I still spend 16 hours of my day here, struggling to make ends meet.
     A bell rings loudly, time for candy control. It was always the same men in these suits, searching through the bags of candy you'd been slicing, checking for any imperfections. I yawn as they dig through the bag, until finally the man glares at me and yanks it from its hook. I turn back to my work, pushing the lever down rhythmically.
     This is my least favorite part of the job. It leaves my arms sore and keeps me yawning. Sometimes they leave me with a ladle in the chocolate room though, and that's where I excell. I know how to mix equal parts milk, sugar, and cocoa. I can feel how long it needed to be tempered or cooled. I sense when to turn down the heat, stir the pot a few extra times.
     Chocolate is my element, something I understand. It is also the only good thing about this damn job.
     The bell buzzes again and I feel my shoulders relax as I let out a long sigh.
     Time to go home.
     I untie my apron, hanging it back on the hook by my station. I grab my bag and loosen my ponytail, joining the long line of people filing out the door.
     Cold air bites my nose and cheeks the moment I step outside, the wind whipping through my hair. I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk down the streets hurriedly. I pass colorful stores and advertisements hung from each and every pole.
     Longman.
     Sylvester.
     Wonka.
     I let out an angry huff and quicken my pace down the street. Always on and on about that chocolateir, Wonka. They call him a prodigy and honestly can't get enough of him here in London. His work in the candy market left all other businesses with empty pockets, even at Slugworths, people are fired every week. It's because of him I have to constantly fear for my job.
     I hate Slugworths, yes, but it is the only thing keeping me from losing my home, the only thing that gives me any hope of a better life.
     I walk into my apartment building, the dingy floors and walls. The receptionist glances over at me, then waves me on. I take my key from my pocket and enter the elevator. I slam on the button a few times before the door begins to close, stupid old thing.
     I rub at my eyes, leaving the elevator the minute it hits floor 4. I jam the key into the lock, twisting furiously. The damn thing is basically broken. Finally, the door conceded and I enter my apartment, my bag immediately hitting the floor. It's a little bitty place. Just a single room with a little bathroom on the side that used to be a closet.
     I make myself some toast, the only dinner I have the energy to make. Then I take a quick shower, scraping the gunk of the day off of my skin. I pull on an old cotton shirt and curl into bed, my eyes heavy, preparing for a long nights sleep.
     Until I hear a knock at the door. I'm immediately confused but equal parts frustrated as well.  I grunt, slowly standing from my bed. I look through the peephole.
     Nothing.
     Nothing?
     I open the door, looking down the hall. Still no one. At my feet lies a letter though.
     The letter "W" swirled on the back.