Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and questionable wisdom, has brought a new effigy into my domain. It appears to be a plush mockery of that grimacing "Batman" character from the glowing rectangle, except it has been rendered by someone with a deep-seated fear of dentists. They call it a "Fuggler." Its primary features are a grotesquely wide smile full of unnervingly human-like teeth and a body made of what they claim is "super soft plush." While the plush aspect has a sliver of potential for kneading or as a secondary pillow, the hard, plastic teeth are an aesthetic and tactical nightmare. They are unsuitable for a satisfying bite and serve only to cheapen the entire experience. This object seems designed less for a discerning feline's amusement and more as a monument to my human's bizarre sense of humor, a potential waste of a perfectly good sunbeam.
Key Features
- Peculiar Plush: Our 9" Fugglers are the perfect size and made from super soft plush. BEWARE, they will still ruin your life!
- Rare Butt-on Hole: 1/24 Fugglers have a rare Butt-on hole! Will you find the rare Fug?
- Human-like Teeth: Each Fuggler features a set of disturbingly human-like teeth.
- Collect Them All: There are so many Fugglers to collect!
- DC x Fuggler Range: It’s the Fuggler monsters you know and loathe, DC-style!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a cardboard box, an undignified vessel for anything destined to enter my presence. My human placed it on the rug with a coo of delight, and I was forced to observe it from my perch on the back of the sofa. It was a gargoyle, a soft-bodied parody of a creature of the night. It wore a bat's cowl, but its wide, vacant eyes held no predatory gleam. Its offense was its mouth—a ghastly, gaping smile filled with enormous, unnervingly square teeth. They looked like tiny, polished tombstones. It was a silent, felt-covered scream. For the first day, we engaged in a silent war of attrition. I refused to acknowledge its existence, focusing my attention on a particularly compelling dust bunny under the bookshelf. Yet, I felt its stare. It sat unmoving, its plastic grin a fixed point of madness in my otherwise orderly kingdom. My human would occasionally pick it up and waggle it at me, speaking in that high-pitched tone they reserve for me and inanimate objects they find amusing. I would respond with a slow blink of profound disappointment before turning my head away. This was not a toy. It was an idol for a cult of bad taste. Curiosity, that most vulgar of feline impulses, finally betrayed me in the dead of night. The house was still, bathed in the cool blue light of the neighbor's security lamp. I crept down from my human's bed, a gray shadow against the dark wood floors, and approached the sentinel on the rug. Up close, it was even more absurd. I could see the stitching on its cheap cape. I extended a paw, claws sheathed, and tentatively tapped one of the teeth. It made a dull *clack*. I sniffed it. It smelled of plastic and the faint, dusty scent of the warehouse it came from. There was no life here, no spirit to vanquish. It was then I understood. This was not a challenger. It was a jester. A court fool whose only purpose was to be strange. Its ugliness was its defining, and only, characteristic. There was a certain pathetic power in that. I circled it once, then deliberately rubbed my cheek against its plush head, marking it thoroughly with my scent. It was mine now. Not as prey, not as a friend, but as a bizarre piece of furniture. A grotesque throne for a dust bunny, perhaps. It would serve as a constant reminder that while my human may be the one who pays for the kibble, I am the one who defines true style in this house.
