The Sign Painter.

If one were to look at the vast landscape of the World of Goo, they would see hills, trees, giant corporations, and information superhighways. Goo balls, power plants, factories, and a lone figure speedwalking across the scene.

The man stopped for a moment, hoisted the stack of wooden signs tucked under his arm into a more secure position, and took a deep breath. He heard the squooshing, oozing sounds beneath his feet, and knew the goo balls were on their way to the next point in the pipeline. He silently cursed the Player for relying so heavily on the 'Skip' function, and picked up his pace.

He used to be an artist, a renowned painter, quite successful on the Information Superhighway. before prices plummeted, anyway. 99 cents was far too little to expect anyone to live on. the others lowered the quality of their work, just to break even, selling cheap bags of glitter.

That's when he became an outcast and an oddball.

He couldn't stand the idea of lowering himself to bags of glitter, never! He kept with his canvases, using a slightly narrower range of colors, fighting to keep old ideals alive. He went into the change kicking and screaming, helplessly dragging his feet. He hated cutting corners, but eventually found some cheaper materials. Cardboard. Construction paper. Paper. He couldn't stand using such things, eventually giving up on art as he knew it just to ease the pain. But his pride was still intact somewhat, so instead of glitter, he wrote quirky messages on signposts. They didn't sell, not a single one, whereas those things to which he was so opposed, couldn't be restocked fast enough. They said he was crazy, stuck in the past, and should get with the times. But the times seemed to be going the wrong way, the Superhighway was having lesser and lesser traffic, and was eventually abandoned altogether. He kept leaving the signs in various places, just because. make someone's day a little more interesting.

As he wandered the world leaving signs around, he had noticed a pattern with it, a pipe system, a puzzle. He had always been good at puzzles. He had started thinking the puzzle through, and soon came to an amazing revelation, those delicious little goo balls could change the world! If only they could build in the right direction. He had instantly tried to help them along, but they hid from him. which was probably a good thing for both of them, he couldn't keep the saliva out of his mouth when he was near them. Even now, the sound of them oozing through the pipeline made his stomach growl.

So he left signs, signs to guide whoever would help the goo balls build, to help the Player. Helpful signs, vague signs, totally useless signs. Enough to keep the Player from getting stuck, or losing interest, and keep himself from getting caught by MOM.

He came to a wade crevice, his pale eyes swept the scene, analyzing it. finally, everything clicked. He then jumped off of the crevice, his hover shoes activating at the last possible second, flipping him upside down so his head was an inch above some very deadly looking spikes. He grabbed a root and righted himself, hovering over to the other side. the shoes were probably the worst crap he had ever bought, he should never have trusted someone that offered hover shoes at 98 cents. Or at least have been deterred by the horrible color, a sickening shade of pink. He had dipped the shoes into everything he could think of, paints, dyes, bleaches, oil, goo, but they always came out the exact same color. So finally he came to the solution of simply not looking at his feet, which, he reminisced as he tripped over a large rock, was probably not the best idea. He set the signposts down, fishing for his brush in his pack. Upon locating it, he whipped it out and picked up one of the signs again. with quick, clean strokes, he left his hint. He had always been quite proud of his handwriting as well, which was so neat it looked like it had been typed. He drove the signpost into the ground, brushed his hands off, and made to collect his supplies before the Player came. He stopped, as he realized he had forgotten something. He walked back over to his message, pulled out the brush again, and with presise, efficient movements wrote his signature. He had stopped putting his name up a long time ago, as his occupation had become his identity.

He was, simply,

-The Sign Painter