Rock and Roll Alice Cooper Minimates Constrictor

From: Art Asylum

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with what appears to be a tiny, angular totem from a strange cult. The box says 'Art Asylum,' which I assume is where they imprison objects that fail to be interesting. This 'Alice Cooper' figure is a rigid, plastic effigy of a rather theatrical human holding a very sad, blocky snake. It possesses no articulation, no enticing scent, no jingle, and no redeeming interactive qualities whatsoever. Its sole purpose, as far as I can discern, is to occupy a flat surface, gathering dust until I decide its true destiny is to be batted under the heaviest piece of in the house. A profound waste of polymer.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The small idol was placed on the end table, a new and unwelcome sentinel in my domain. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail twitching in quiet appraisal. The human called it “Alice Cooper,” a name that sounded like a sneeze followed by a command. This was no toy. This was an effigy. The tiny man, with his dark eyes and stiff posture, was clearly a shaman. The snake coiled around his arm was not a pet, but a familiar, a conduit of power. They had been brought here for a reason, and I suspected it had something to do with the recent reduction in my salmon pâté rations. I waited until the moon was high and the house was steeped in silence. A graceful leap, a noiseless landing, and I was face-to-face with the plastic shaman. I circled him slowly, sniffing the air for traces of magic. There was only the faint, sterile scent of a factory. I lowered my head, my whiskers brushing against the blocky snake. It offered no hiss, no flicker of a tongue. I nudged the shaman’s foot with my nose. He didn't budge. This was a very stoic wizard, or a very cheap one. My initial theory of a powerful curse began to crumble. This was not a vessel of dark energy; it was a lump. My cynicism solidified into a verdict. This was not a magical adversary sent to enforce dietary restrictions. It was merely an insult to my intelligence. An object whose only purpose was to be looked at is an object that has fundamentally failed at its job. With a flick of my paw, I sent the shaman and his reptilian accessory skittering across the polished wood. The sound was a dull, unsatisfying clatter. It was a hollow victory. I gave it one more purposeful shove, watching as it tumbled off the edge of the table and disappeared into the deep shag of the rug below, lost to the world. Let the dust bunnies have him. He might be a king in their silent, lint-filled kingdom, but in my world, he was nothing. I cleansed my paw of the memory and retired to my human’s pillow, the rightful throne from which I would judge all future, and hopefully more interesting, offerings.