Pete's Expert Summary
My human has once again brought home a static, miniature human for their collection. This one is a brightly-colored adolescent called "Robin," apparently from some story about a bat. It's a plastic effigy meant for a shelf, not a floor, and it comes with an assortment of tiny plastic bits—a sword and a broken mask—that are practically begging to be batted under the heaviest piece of furniture in the room. The primary feature seems to be that its limbs bend in many unnatural ways, which suggests a certain satisfying fragility should I ever get my paws on it. It also includes a thin, crinkly paper square that offers neither the comfort of a good nap spot nor the texture for a satisfying claw-sharpening session. Frankly, it's a dust-collector, but its potential for a dramatic, shelf-clearing fall is at least moderately intriguing.
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 sword, Professor Pyg's broken mask, 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 human called it "Damian Wayne," a name that sounded far too important for a seven-inch piece of plastic. It was placed on the desk with a reverence I typically reserve for a freshly opened can of tuna. The figure stood there, glaring out with painted-on petulance, its garish red and green costume an assault on my refined grayscale sensibilities. For days, it was merely part of the landscape, another obstacle between me and the warm spot on the router. I had no interest in it. It couldn't be stalked, it didn't skitter, and it certainly didn't dispense treats. It was useless. One evening, however, a profound injustice occurred: the food bowl was empty. My silent protests from the middle of the floor went unnoticed. My pointed stares were misinterpreted as simple affection. Desperate times, I mused, required desperate measures. My gaze fell upon the plastic boy-human on the desk. An idea, brilliant and devious, began to form in my magnificent brain. I leaped onto the desk, my soft paws making no sound. I nudged the figure with my nose. It didn't just topple; its arm swung forward. I nudged its leg, and it bent at the knee. The "Ultra Articulation" was not a weakness, I realized, but a feature I could exploit. With the meticulous precision of a surgeon, I began my work. A careful pat to the torso bent the figure forward into a desperate bow. A series of gentle nudges with my nose and a single, deft paw-tap positioned its tiny arm to point directly, unequivocally, at my empty food bowl across the room. For the final touch, I located the discarded plastic sword accessory. I picked it up delicately in my teeth and placed it on the desk before the kneeling figure, an offering to the god of kibble. My masterpiece was complete. The human found my tableau the next morning. There was a moment of silence, then a confused chuckle, followed by the glorious sound of the food container being opened. As the kibble rattled into my bowl, I watched from my perch, a low purr vibrating in my chest. This "Page Puncher" was no mere toy. It was a communications device, a silent ambassador for my needs. It could translate my sophisticated desires into a visual language my simple human could understand. It was not a plaything; it was a partner. And for that, it had earned my respect.
