Pete's Expert Summary
My human has, once again, mistaken "collector's item" for "source of feline amusement." This new acquisition is a small, rigid plastic man in a garish suit, apparently named Superman. It's from a brand called McFarlane Toys, which clearly prioritizes human shelf-clutter over genuine playability. Being a "posed figure" means its only trick is standing still, a skill I perfected for napping by my second week. While its small size and smooth vinyl texture might offer a satisfying thud when batted from a great height, its primary purpose seems to be gathering dust and my contempt. It is, in essence, a stationary insult to the very concept of a toy.
Key Features
- 4.5in scale posed figure
- Limited Edition
- Collector Vinyl
- Collect all DC DIRECT Todd’s Mods vinyl figures
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human placed the new plastic effigy on the mantelpiece, right next to the antique clock. He delivered the usual lecture, his voice full of feigned authority. "This is a limited edition, Pete. For looking, not for… you know." I knew. The human departed for his daily chores, leaving the little blue-and-red sentinel to guard the hearth. The silence of the house settled in, and I resumed my post-breakfast grooming on the rug, utterly unimpressed by the newcomer. Then, a buzz. A low, insolent thrumming that promised a proper challenge. A housefly, fat and arrogant from a winter spent indoors, began a lazy tour of the living room. It circled the lampshade, taunted me from the windowpane, and then, with breathtaking audacity, it landed directly on the plastic man's head. It began grooming its own minuscule legs as if it had just conquered a mountain. The game, as the humans say, was afoot. The mantelpiece is a treacherous landscape. One clumsy move and the "collector's item" would plummet to its doom, an offense for which the punishment is usually a closed bedroom door at night—an unacceptable outcome. I leaped silently onto the nearby armchair, my gray-and-white form a shadow against the upholstery. The fly remained, oblivious. I measured the distance, the angle, the risk. This wasn't to be a brutish pounce; it was a surgical strike. My tail gave a single, slow twitch, the only outward sign of the complex calculations running through my mind. With a final, silent push-off, I soared. My front paws extended, claws meticulously sheathed, scooping the air an inch above the statue's molded hair. The fly, startled into motion, flew directly into my waiting trap. A satisfying crunch, a flick of the tongue, and the deed was done. I landed back on the armchair with a soft thud, the plastic Superman still standing, none the wiser. I gave it a slow, appraising blink. As a toy, it was a failure. But as a high-stakes training platform for honing one's predatory genius? I must admit, it has its uses. It can stay. For now.
