Slime oozes, fuses, and flows from buckets, sewers, and pipes. Blazing lime green and electric blue rivers of coagulated goo pour into streets and invade sparkling kitchen floors. People scream and jump on chairs, whose feet erode in the chemical flood.
Slime sparks pandemonium not unlike the stinky black sludge that spews from toilets and sinks when the sewer pipeline is clogged. But slime reigns the fear factor, the unknown and uncontrollable glue-like surge feeding off the sobs and tears of shrieking women and shouting men, who bark, “what the hells is that?!”
Slime takes no time to explain itself. It has homes to eat and streets to bury. A mad scientist to please. Few are aware that slime is a yes man. Or thing. A yes thing. A doer. Sometimes even a do-it-yourselfer.
Slime bubbles and gurgles, meanders and slides down hills, climbs walls when it can. Slime overtakes everything. It’s a mess to clean up. A sight to behold when the HAZMAT team arrives to survey their job. Men in shiny body suits and gas masks uncertain where to begin. Sucking up the ooze into giant trucks. Where it will go, no one really knows.