Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought home another plastic effigy from the McFarlane cult, this one a grim-looking biped they call “Deathstroke.” It’s a seven-inch statue, which is a respectable size for a proper thrashing, and its claim of “Ultra Articulation” with 22 moving parts is intriguing. A toy that can be bent into a pose of utter humiliation before being batted under the sofa has potential. However, its primary appeal seems to be the collection of small, easily detachable bits—weapons and a spare head—which are prime material for skittering across the hardwood and losing in a dust bunny fortress. The included paper rectangle is, as always, only useful as a surface for a nap, strategically placed to interrupt the human’s viewing of it. This is a high-shelf item, meaning its true value lies not in immediate play, but in the long-term satisfaction of plotting its eventual, gravity-assisted downfall.
Key Features
- Incredibly detailed 7” scale figure, designed with Ultra Articulation with up to 22 moving parts for full range of posing and play
- Accessories include 3 weapons, extra masked head, character art card and figure display base
- Also includes English-only reprint comic book
- Collect all McFARLANE TOYS x DC DIRECT PAGE PUNCHERS figures
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Warden placed the new prisoner on the Shelf of Forbidden Things, a high perch between a stoic-looking creature in a blue suit and a garish green lantern. This one, clad in orange and black armor, stood stiff and vigilant, a silent sentinel. From my observation post on the velvet armchair, I gave a dismissive flick of my ear. Another static piece of plastic, destined to gather dust until my biannual shelf-clearing spree. It held a weapon, posturing as if it could possibly defend itself against a being of my stealth and magnificence. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. The challenge was noted, but I would address it on my own schedule. Hours later, under the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, the operation commenced. The Warden was asleep, his snores providing a rhythmic, percussive score for my mission. A silent leap to the desk, a careful traverse across a landscape of discarded papers, and I was at the base of the bookshelf. The ascent was trivial. Upon reaching the correct altitude, I came face-to-face with the sentinel. He was more detailed up close, his one visible eye seeming to stare into the middle distance, blissfully unaware of the apex predator that had breached his perimeter. I didn’t just shove him. That’s amateur work. I nudged him gently with my nose, a subtle push at his center of gravity. He tumbled without a fight, landing on the plush rug below with a muffled *thump*. Down on the floor, the true inspection began. I circled the fallen figure, sniffing its strange, plasticky scent. I gave it a tentative pat. To my surprise, a leg bent at the knee with a satisfying, quiet *click*. I batted it again, and an arm flopped over its head. This was no rigid soldier; this was a marionette without strings. I pinned its torso with one paw and systematically bent each of its 22 joints, contorting it into a pose that defied both anatomy and dignity. It was a masterpiece of abstract surrender. It was during this interrogation that my paw snagged something loose. A tiny, silver sword detached and skittered away, its light weight perfect for a high-speed chase. Then, a rifle. Excellent. But the true prize came when I nudged its head and it popped off, revealing a neck peg. And there, beside the body, was the *spare* head. A trophy. I left the twisted, headless corpse on the rug as a message for The Warden. Picking up the disembodied masked head in my mouth, I trotted off to my lair beneath the bed. The figure was a mere container; the true quality of this toy was in how easily it could be dismantled and its choicest parts claimed. Worthy, indeed.
