Slimer

He slimed me. Bill Murray staggers out of the ballroom covered in ectoplasm, and somewhere a 4th-grade lunchbox pops open with a warm Ecto Cooler juice box rolling out. That's Slimer. The little green ghost from your childhood grew up, learned cornhole, and now he's floating three inches off the board eyeballing the hole like it's a hotel cart full of room service.

Toxic honeycomb, drippy graffiti, horned smiley grinning through the ooze — this thing looks radioactive because it plays radioactive. Flip to the grey carpet back and you've got the stick side: park it, block the hole, hang a nasty roll while your opponent's PKE meter goes off. Flip to slick and Slimer takes the express lane, ectoplasm trail down the board, gone before they can cross the streams.

Who ya gonna call when the money round hits and you need a bag that stops OR runs on command? Grab a set of Slimers. Bust some ghosts.