TheAugmentor

Ms. Cerisa Primrose cut a striking figure—a complexion like marzipan, hair a deep shade of ripe tangerine that reached well past her shoulders, dimpled face, and mint green eyes that betrayed a scampish glimmer. She was trim and stylishly dressed in a vibrant but tasteful cherry-red business suit. As there were few visitors to the factory, a former break room predating the arrival of the Oompa-Loompas was re-purposed as a makeshift conference space. The cinderblock walls were painted powder-blue, accented by a single horizontal chartreuse stripe midway down. The afternoon sunshine, warm as butterscotch, streamed through the tall west-facing windows. Comfortable chairs, their cushions sporting candy patterns, encircled a sturdy but well-worn wooden table. Overhead, a single-cord pendant lamp with a glass shade resembling a bowl full of colorful candies cast a welcoming glow above the table. Thick glass pipes leading to the Chocolate Room crossed the ceiling. Charlie and Mr. Wonka

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this one about a decade ago for an audience of one—a feedee test reader (she knows who she is) who seemed to enjoy it. Now that there's an "expanded Wonka universe," I figured I'd dust this off. Everything old is new again. --T.J. Charlie Bucket's life had begun to settle into a familiar rhythm—even something resembling normalcy—if such a thing could exist within Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Now grown, Charlie stood as the heir apparent. He was still an apprentice, but nonetheless he was primed to take the helm when the time came. The past 15 years had seemed like an endless tempest of activity in the wake of the fateful Golden Ticket tour. But eventually, the Bucket family acclimated to their new home, and Mr. Wonka had begun to teach Charlie the inner workings of the operation. And so Charlie’s days were now spent exploring the endless rooms and corridors of the great facility, day by day unlocking more of its fascinating secrets. Now that Charlie’s

How long had it been since life had been “normal”? Bonnie tried to recollect; she guessed it had been at least a year-and-a-half. Or was it almost three? The details were murky. It might just as well have been a couple of weeks as a couple of years. Days and weeks seemed to melt into each other like Creamsicles on hazy summer afternoons. Bonnie was losing her formerly keen sense of time—not to mention her figure. Endless delivery and takeout, diminished pressure to look presentable, lounging around, constant munching—this was normalcy now. There was no denying that it had been a fattening couple of years, give or take. Bonnie had always eaten sensibly and had managed to maintain her high-school weight—a tidbit she was embarrassed to once have secretly prided herself on. It wasn’t that she was vain—she didn’t think so, at least. It was just how it was; it was simply a fact that applied to her no less than, say, her natural auburn hair color. She was just

Mim gestured, and the overhead lights dimmed and the recliner was bathed in a soft ambient pink glow. The room was redolent with dessert aromas and the tantalizing smells of everything butterbell—the sweet heady scent of ripe fruit commingled with fragrant wildflower. “I’m going to feed you to capacity, but you will savor every bite,” Mim declared. “This can be an extraordinarily pleasurable experience for you, if you let it.” She rubbed her hands together delightedly. “Now, what shall we start with? Why not something light, to ease you into it!” She surveyed the tabletop and the trays still sitting atop the serving bots. “For you, I think…the triple-whipped butterbell mousse will do nicely.” Not wanting to betray her anticipation, Lina sat completely still and said nothing. Mim hoisted the mousse, which was in an oversized dessert cup with an enormous dollop of whipped cream on top. Then she summoned her robotic seat, moved forward into a deep curved recess in the tabletop, and

Bonnie wasn’t sure what was happening to her housemate, Mariella, but whatever it was, it was starting to happen to herself, too. Mare had blown past flabbiness some time ago, and was now migrating into bona fide chunker territory. Every extra ounce was magnified on Mare’s tiny frame; she was just barely 5’ tall. But Bonnie wasn’t looking quite so svelte these days, either, and she knew it herself. And it was becoming a real problem. Bonnie was emptying the last of a snack-sized bag of chips into her mouth, tapping on the bag to ensure that she got every last crumb. Mare, who had just wandered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and surveyed her choices; she selected the familiar trapezoidal takeout box with its red-inked illustrations of a pagoda on each side. “Enjoy! Thank You!’” said Mare, leaning against the island and reading aloud the words on the container. “Well, that’s very polite of them. I will enjoy, and thank you.” She had

“Dry your tears, Ms. Lazuli,” said Mim firmly. “They’ll do you no good. We’ve got important work to do. For me, it’s the business of feeding, and for you it’s the business of eating.” Lina continued to sob and sniffle…until she became distracted by a curious sensation: an impression of soothing warmth that seemed to originate in her belly and radiate like a pinwheel outward to the tips of her fingers and toes. Mim noticed Lina’s abrupt silence and smiled. “You’ve finally got some nourishment in you. It feels wonderful, doesn’t it?” Lina, who certainly would not admit to it aloud, wiped away a tear with her finger. Mim made a disapproving clucking sound. “You haven’t even taken a moment to consider what you’ve just eaten. How ungrateful of you.” Lina felt somehow abashed. It was true; her long-buried craving of a lifetime had just been fulfilled and she had not yet taken the time to reflect on this stroke of fortune. So Lina chose now to fully bask in the afterglow of the

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I’ve promised a Munchies follow-up for a long time, and among my many unfinished pieces, there actually is a proper “sequel” in progress. But I figure that now might be an ideal time to start from scratch, since the Munchies have become more relevant than ever in the past two-and-a-half years. After all, who hasn’t put on a little weight since then? As I’ve written before, the original PSA had a huge influence on me, though probably not for the reasons its creators would have hoped. I always thought it would make for an ideal weight-gain story, even if there was a time when—believe it or not—I had no idea who would ever read such a thing. (This was long before I knew that apparently there are plenty of people who would.) In any event, I’m glad I could do my part to rescue the PSA from obscurity. It was always too good of an idea to let languish in the dustbin of Saturday-morning history. PROLOGUE You’ve heard of us—the evil imps Who turn the skinnies into