"First of all, they're totally a different species. And second, they're not enslaved; Oompa Loompas are happily employed at the chocolate factory." He paused for breath and took a long sip of his Mai Tai through the straw.

The date was going terribly, but she didn't really mind. In an hour and a half, she was going to kill him. It would be harder if he had been charming. Or if he had reasonable opinions about anything. She knew it was unprofessional, but she was looking forward to the end of the date.

Breath caught and Mai Tai sipped, he continued. "And besides, just listen to the lyrics: 'If you're not greedy you will go far! / You will live in happiness too, / Like the Oompa Loompa doompadee do!' They're happy!"

She shrugged and speared another Brussels sprout, contemplating. The instructions were very specific-- no murder until after 10pm. She had expected some challenges, but nothing like this. She stifled a sigh.

"Fine, I'll bite. Lyrics or not, happy or not, they're slaves. They can't leave and they're not paid."

She forced a smile, as if this counted as witty banter, as if she wouldn't rather be anywhere else. It came off more threatening than coy. He didn't notice.

He laughed a quick laugh and leaned in slightly. "That's overly simplistic," he said. "Wonka isn't preventing them from leaving. He's protecting them from the horrors of the outer world. Society would never accept the Oompas, but they can live freely and contentedly in the factory."

"You're absurd." She speared the last Brussels sprout. "Would you suggest we round up people who are discriminated against and put them in factories to protect them from 'the horrors of the outer world?'"

"I'm absurd?" He laughed. She saw his mind work furiously, trying to figure out if she was flirting or not. She wasn't.

Yet, evidently, he had decided that debating the ethics of the labor practices at Willy Wonka's chocolate factory counted as a valid topic for a first date. Unfortunately, there wasn't really a point in telling him otherwise. This would be his last.

"No, you're absurd," he continued, with a wink. "Wonka's factory isn't some internment camp. It's a haven, like a Native American reservation, or, or, an Israel!"

"Except people are allowed to leave Israel! It's not a secret!" she countered.

"Where in the film-- the original, don't get me started about the remake-- is it implied that the Oompa Loompas can't leave?"

The busboy approached the table and began refilling their water glasses. Not wanting to be overheard talking about Oompa Loompas, especially on a hit, she busied herself with her Merlot. Her date slurped down some more Mai Tai. The busboy spilled a few drops of water on the table, mumbled an apology, scooped up the appetizer plates, and left.

"Look," she said. "Do you have any allergies?"

Of course, she already knew the answer. The instructions had included his full medical history. He was deathly allergic to pecans.

"I'm deathly allergic to pecans," he answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, suppose that when we order dessert in about an hour, our lovely busboy there accidentally gives you the pecan pie instead of the pecan-free pie and that you take a bite and slowly choke to death as I struggle to find your EpiPen and that you die."

He laughed nervously. He was sure they had really hit it off with the Oompa Loompa stuff, but now the flirting had taken a darker turn.

he thought.

This wasn't, by the way, how she planned to kill him. Too public. Instead, her plan was to let him seduce her back to his apartment and then slit his throat in the bathtub. By the time anyone found the body, she would be long gone and $230,000 worth of Ethereum richer. She was beginning to worry though, about her ability to appear convincingly seduced.

"So, suppose this is the last date you'll ever go on."

"Okay..."

"Do you really want to keep talking about Oompa Loompas?"

"Yes! No where was I--"

"No! Let's not," she interrupted. "Tell me about yourself. Do you have any hobbies?"

The main course arrived, scallops for her and one big raviolo for him. He ordered another Mai Tai, mango this time. He looked down at the raviolo and chuckled. "I thought it was a typo, but I guess not."

She smiled. In the minute that he wasn't defending the horrific human rights violations perpetrated by Mr. Wonka, he suddenly looked quite attractive. She probably would have swiped right on him even without the instructions. She wondered, briefly, who wanted him dead badly enough to hire an assassin from the dark web.

she thought,

"My hobbies? I don't have many," he said. "I'm trying to pick up woodwork, but it's pretty tough to do in a studio apartment. Mostly I just watch the tutorials on YouTube."

From there, the conversation turned normal, enjoyable and free of Oompa Loompas. By the time he finished his raviolo, it was almost ten. They decided to skip dessert and its possible threat of pecans.

"Want to come back to my place for another round?" he asked seductively.

"I'd love to," she said, and meant it, instructions or no.

On the walk to his apartment, they laughed and laughed. Twice, her hand gently grazed his. She tried to remember the last time she had touched another human, one that she wasn't going to kill. She couldn't remember.

They started kissing as soon as they crossed the threshold, like they do in movies. She guided him towards the kitchen, away from the bathroom, away from her plans. She could confess, they could fake his death, split the Ethereum and flee the country. Or, she could not say anything, enjoy herself for once, ghost her employer and find a new career. He was a good kisser. The aftertaste of mango and raviolo made a strange combination, but it was good nonetheless. They reached the kitchen counter. She decided to spare his life and tugged off his shirt.

"Wait. Before we go any further, something's bothering me," he said.

"Oh," she said, stunned. Did he know? How could he? Had he ordered it himself? No, he wouldn't have. Would he?

"From earlier, you kind of just changed the topic without conceding anything," he said.

"I-- what?"

"Look, just admit that you were wrong about Willy Wonka."

"Ha, no," she laughed. She slammed his head onto the counter, grabbed his jigsaw-- he should have stuck to the YouTube tutorials-- flipped it on and plunged it into his neck. A bit messier than she liked, but it would do. She wiped off her prints, washed her hands and showed herself out, humming softly, "Oompa Loompa doompadee do, doompadee do."

⬛

Discussion Questions for Your Book Club