Bartholomew’s attempts at navigating his new reality were proving to be an exercise in slimy futility. Every new surface presented a potential hazard. The rough bark of trees made him feel like he was being gently sandpapered. Patches of moss induced a disconcerting sliminess-within-a-sliminess sensation. Even the smooth stones felt strangely abrasive.

  His primary mode of defense seemed to be… being utterly unthreatening. Small woodland creatures regarded him with mild curiosity before scampering away, seemingly unimpressed by his wobbly form. Birds occasionally landed nearby, pecked at the ground, and then hopped off, apparently deciding he wasn’t edible or even particularly interesting to perch on.

  Then came the goblins.

  They emerged from the dense undergrowth, a trio of small, green-skinned humanoids wielding crude clubs and sporting teeth that looked alarmingly sharp. They chattered in a guttural language Bartholomew didn’t understand, their beady eyes scanning their surroundings with a distinctly unpleasant gleam.

  Bartholomew’s survival instincts, honed by years of avoiding Brenda from accounts after she’d had one too many sherries at the Christmas party, kicked in. He needed to look intimidating. A difficult task when one was essentially a sentient puddle.

  He tried to puff himself up, achieving little more than a slightly larger, wobblier puddle. He attempted a menacing gurgle, which sounded suspiciously like a blocked drain. He even tried to move towards them with what he hoped was a threateningly slow ooze, but mostly he just looked like he was struggling to move uphill.

  The goblins stopped their chattering and stared. For a moment, Bartholomew held a sliver of hope. Perhaps they were awestruck by his… unique form?

  Then, one of them, a particularly scrawny goblin with a chipped ear, pointed a gnarled finger at him and let out a high-pitched cackle that sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Look, Grok! It’s a jiggly green thing!” he shrieked, clutching his sides.

  A second goblin, larger and sporting a rather impressive nose wart, lumbered closer, peering down at Bartholomew with undisguised curiosity. “Can we eat it?” he grunted, his breath smelling vaguely of stale mushrooms and something vaguely… metallic.

  Panic slimed up Bartholomew’s non-existent throat. Being eaten was definitely not on his post-gnome-incident to-do list. He had to think fast. He vaguely recalled something from one of the fantasy novels Brenda had secretly read during particularly dull board meetings (disguised within a particularly thick volume of tax regulations): slimes were often acidic. A natural defense mechanism.

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  He focused all his being, all his gelatinous might, and tried to exude… something unpleasant. He willed his very essence to become corrosive, to deter these green menaces with a burst of… something.

  A window flickered into existence:

  [Attempting to Activate Defensive Ability: Acidic Secretion] [MP Required: 5] [Current MP: 0] [Failure: Insufficient Mana]

  Bartholomew gurgled in frustration. Of course he had no mana. Why would a former accountant turned slime have mana? This whole fantasy world thing was clearly rigged against him.

  Instead of a corrosive acid, what emanated from Bartholomew was a faint, vaguely lemon-scented mist. It wasn’t intentional. Perhaps it was a byproduct of his earlier allergic reaction to the purple flowers? Or maybe his body was just desperately trying to smell less like… slime.

  The goblins sniffed the air, their wrinkled noses twitching.

  “Smells like… cleaning fluid?” the chipped-ear goblin said, looking utterly perplexed.

  “Maybe it’s poisonous cleaning fluid!” the wart-nosed goblin suggested, taking a cautious step back.

  The third goblin, who had been silently observing the interaction with a dull expression, poked Bartholomew tentatively with his club. Bartholomew wobbled indignantly.

  Taking advantage of their momentary confusion and apparent aversion to the scent of lemon-fresh… slime, Bartholomew decided to make a tactical retreat. He began to ooze away as fast as his gelatinous form would allow, leaving a faint, citrusy trail on the forest floor.

  His escape was less a daring flight and more a slow, wobbly slide. He could hear the goblins’ confused muttering behind him.

  “Cleaning fluid?”

  “Poisonous?”

  “Maybe we should poke it again?”

  He didn’t wait to find out. He just kept wobbling, his every movement a testament to his utter lack of speed and his desperate desire to avoid becoming goblin lunch.

  His journey continued in this vein, a series of near-misses and humiliating encounters. He discovered he was also allergic to most metals when he inadvertently oozed over a discarded rusty sword, resulting in a series of shimmering, silver-tinged bumps. He learned that certain types of soil made him feel strangely gritty, like he’d been rolled in particularly fine sand.

  One particularly harrowing experience involved a babbling brook. Thinking water would be a safe haven, he’d plunged in, only to find himself inflating like a leaky balloon, bobbing helplessly downstream until he snagged on a thorny bush.

  Another status alert flashed:

  [Status Alert!] [Contact with Local Water Source] [Reaction: Osmotic Inflation] [Current Size: Approximately 1.5x Normal] [Warning: Risk of Rupture at 2x Normal Size]

  “Oh, for the love of… even the water hates me!” Bartholomew gurgled, his voice now sounding like bubbles gargling through a larger volume of jelly.

  His existence as a sentient slime was less a grand adventure and more a constant battle against a world that seemed determined to make him itch, inflate, or be eaten. He longed for the beige predictability of Bottomley, Bottomley, and Bottomley. He even missed Brenda’s overly enthusiastic Christmas greetings. Anything was better than this slimy, allergic nightmare.