The Strange Misadventures of Mr. Nice Guy: Bad Slime!

Mr. Nice Guy is lost. As per usual, to be honest, though it does get a bit confusing at times when he wonders whether or not he actually is lost. Considering the fact that he doesn't even know where he is points towards lost, but if he doesn't even know where he's supposed to be going, then how can he ever find his way to his destination?

The tall, malnourished-looking creature sighs and pads his way through the forest, his bony tail dragging limply behind him. Dust whirled around his clawed, pointy feet, his head drooping. His tentacles dragged nearly in the dirt, hanging around his face like wet human hair, their normally glossy surface caked with grime, extraterrestrial and Earth-born too. Mr. Nice Guy trudged through the lonely forest, his glowing smile-disk turned upside-down in an exaggerated frown. Even his-no, Dr. Crowell's-lab jacket was dirty and stained with dirt. How did his jacket even get dirty in the first place? He hadn't laid down in, what, two weeks? 

Mr. Nice Guy pushed through yet more walls of leafy undergrowth, smacking into a tree and whining, turning his ring away. Where in the world was he? 

And more specifically, what world was he in?

The eldritch deity paused, his eye(? He sees through his ring-mouth, so technically it isn't an eye, but oh well-) catching on a new, strange sight. In the depths of the cold, quiet forest, there sat a particular, green creature, sitting on the rock. It was blobby, like a newborn, overfed water balloon (those things were surprisingly aggressive), and transulscent, light shining through a gap in the trees that shone down upon it. Maybe it was sunning itself. Mr. Nice Guy would love to do that soon.

"Dr. Crowell?" his deep, menacing voice growled, rumbling deep inside him. "What is that?"

As per usual, the ghost of the scientist stuck (hopefully not forever) inside of him did not respond. Maybe Mr. Nice Guy wasn't being nice enough. He really needed to work on that.

The strange, blobby slime-creature spun around, what appeared to be its cute little eyes landing on him.

"Hi there!" Mr. Nice Guy called cheerfully, trotting over to the slime and tilting his head at it. "What's your name? I'm Mr. Nice Guy!" He extended a hand, waiting for the odd creature to shake it, as was the usual manner of meeting creatures in what he guessed was still the human world, Earth.

The slime stared at him, then, reaching up one blobby little hand, it slapped Mr. Nice Guy's hand, hard. Most definitely not in a friendly way.

"That's rude." Mr. Nice Guy pouted. "I was just being friendly!"

The slime reared back again, its little, beady eyes on him as it leapt forward, attempting to slap him again. Unfortunately for it, all its jump managed to do was leap upwards and tickle his ring with a near miss, which made him sneeze immediately.

Now, for you all not aqquainted with Mr. Nice Guy as of yet, he has terrible allergies. Especially during flu season, but they were year-round too. And he also had the bad habit of eating what others would deem 'unedible'. And a strong gag reflex.

Mr. Nice Guy sneezed, and out of his permanently open, gaping mouth flew a glass beaker, probably left over from when Dr. Crowell summoned him in the first place. His smile disk, as was a habit of his, detached from his face and grabbed the beaker, then, as the slime reared back to attack again, Mr. Nice Guy slapped a hand on it, heat whirling up inside him and escaping through his hand.

"Bad slime!" he chatised as the green slime melted into a blob, one who which got scooped up into the beaker. "You're taking a time-out!"

Mr. Nice Guy shook his head at the slimy residue left on the rock, then sighed and shoved the beaker with the melted slime inside, still attempting to slap him, into his mouth, where it disappeared into the same gooey darkness that many, many other things resided into, a little pocket of space uninterrupted by the flow of time. Like Dr. Crowell. Maybe he was still sleeping. He had hit his head pretty hard, and-Mr. Nice Guy wasn't exactly sure on this but-the red liquid spilling from his head didn't exactly seem normal. But then again, humans didn't sleep for fourteen days straight, did they?

It was winter though. Maybe he was hibernating. Like a bear. They were adorable.

Mr. Nice Guy sighed, then continued walking through the forest, resuming his gloomy, depressed walk through the dark, cold forest, wishing that maybe, one day, Dr. Crowell would wake up and talk to him again. Maybe this time, Dr. Crowell would see him for the kind creature he was, and wouldn't immediately try to run away. That actually might be a good idea, because last time he did it, the ceiling collapsed and killed him. Sort of.

"Wake up soon, Dr. Crowell. I don't want you to leave." the eldritch being whispered, and off he walked into the forest once more, burdened by his lonely thoughts and his horrible anxiety about what if Dr. Crowell left him upon waking, and what if this, and what if that.

Or maybe, even after all he'd done to help him, maybe poor Dr. Crowell wouldn't wake up at all.