Love beneath the wall: A Willy Wonka Glasgow Experience Romance

I am real and so are you

Maybe my existence stems from garbled gibberish spewed from a computer algorithmn. A being  devoid of a human soul, emotions peppered with personal trauma. Instead, my origin is nothing more than a series of ones and zeros.

There is no canon in me. No copyright, and no guarantees the mind behind these timeless characters could have ever thought me into existence. Would the author like me or find me to be complete rubbish churned from a soulless technological endeavor for a quick buck? Splattered among pages of a senseless script, there is something about me, far beyond the hollow name that churned into the slot machine: I am the villain simply known as The Unknown.

Can an actor whose boss told him to ignore the script and improvise give me a life and personality of my own?

Oh yes, we can all imagine how the actor found out about this totally not even remotely at all suspicious gig: work 2 days! Entertain children in a mind blowing once-in-a-lifetime 2 day event in a Willy Wonka wonderland! Show those pesky Londonite tourists the true hospitality of the Scottish highlands!

Just sign the contract, memorize a cheesy script in 48 hours, show up and 10 minutes later you will get into action! Bada bing, bada boom! You will make some kids smile, meet new friends and earn 500 pounds. Easy peasy!

Oh, every layman will claim playing Willy Wonka's role is like winning the jackpot. Millions of kids grew up watching the prior films or read the book. Willy is eccentric, dangerous, and a tad bit sadistic. A villain that exploits undocumented migrants or misunderstood hero of the underdog child we all have deep inside. Strap on the velvet coat and give me that magical ticket. Any actor will revel in the role!

But... who am I? A faceless villain churned in the robotic slot machine for the sole purpose of being an antagonist to Willy. No backstory, no real purpose outside of just being a convenient thorn in the side to the story's antihero.

Maybe I am a dentist, who revels in all the business Willy sends thanks to jacking up kids with a relentless sugar addiction. Or perhaps I was a government health inspector whose face became burned into goo from one of Willy's more unsavory candy experiments. Any attempts to sue him into bankruptcy thwarted because he funded enough lobbying groups to bribe politicians into submission. Ah, the irony! Could that be me? Who knows, maybe Unknown is never meant to be known. Pun intended.

But enough about those philosophical queries. Today, we have greater concerns. My alter ego, the actor who was promised quick riches for a minimal amount of work has shown up at the Glasgow convention center and is staring at the horrendous eyesore of mismatched decoration.

Mind you, whoever cooked up this event must have paid good money renting these props. If there was ever a winner in this real world, it is the prop rental company. The brutalist warehouse smothered with a stench of humidity, stale air and moss has black blankets dangling from the low rise ceiling. Each blanket forming little cubicles of make believe fantasy where the visitor's imagination must go wild and think. Hrm... Those Mario Brothers plants are a garden of Swamipops, a delightful candy from the Amazon jungle that eats a victim alive and spew sweet goo that is used as a naturally flavored starberry extract in our knock-off brand bubblegum.

Ooh, the jellybean (definitely not a meth) lab. Where jelly beans (certainly not meth) is cooked and I suppose distributed. My actor has serious doubts those 2 fun sized bags of jelly beans will be sufficient for every attendee, but that is not my role, not my problem.

Well, there really isn't much else to see here. Use your imagination or something, whatever. My actor is expectedly pissed off the warehouse doesn't even remotely look like the job brochure and is certain there won't be any payment for the gig.

Oh, but the organizer is sweating bullets. Kids are arriving in 2 hours!, he says with certainty. Under normal circumstances, actors in these kinds of gigs do practice runs and get to know each other. Scripts make logical sense.

But no, to fully ignore the script would deprive me of my existence, I want to live and wish to entertain. This cheap plastic mask made in a nameless factory from China? It's made out of a silvery metal that fills the void of my missing face, destroyed from an unspeakable malady that nobody will ever know. Conspiracy theories will flourish from that, oh they will. Maybe the most entertaining of them all will become adopted as fan canon and I can be like Harley Quinn, created decades after other characters with a story that developed over time thanks to everyone's imput.

The black costume that covers most of my body? Ignore the itch, bed bugs, and chemicals that may or may not be canceringenous. Today, I come into existence. In this alternate reality, the robes are made with the magic of upper cholocateer mages, who devouted their entire lives to make fabric of the finest candy, which reflects all light and changes texture. This gives me the power to hide into the walls, and vanish in the shadows.

Complementing my mysterious appearance is a messy wig with a mop of dark wavy hair spurting in every direction. It flows and bristles as my actor's head moves and tries adhering glue to their head. The only part of the actor's body that remains visible is their hands, which will prove pivotal to showing any expression that is deprived elsewhere.

Do the actors stay or do they go? Maybe some left, stating they are certain they won't get paid anyways. But I am lucky, my actor decided to gamble, make the best of things, and give me a uniqueness beyond the script. With every jerking motion, every turn, every scream from a child who is fearful of me, I become more real. Just like you.