Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired another plastic man-doll. This one, apparently some sort of "Jean-Claude," is a 7-inch effigy clad in a blue pajama-like garment. The packaging boasts of its "detailed sculpting" and "16 points of articulation," which means its limbs can be twisted into various undignified positions. For me, the figure itself is little more than a potential new obstacle to knock off the mantelpiece. However, the mention of "interchangeable parts and accessories" piques my interest. Small, easily lost pieces are the bedrock of any truly entertaining household disruption. While the doll itself is a monument to my human's questionable taste, its detachable bits could provide a few glorious moments of hide-and-seek, with me doing the hiding and him doing the seeking. It might just be worth waking up for.
Key Features
- Inspired by some of JCVD's most famous film appearances
- 16 points of articulation
- 7" tall
- Detailed sculpting and paint applications
- Interchangeable parts and accessories
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The air in the living room shifted. A new scent—the sterile perfume of factory plastic and cardboard—had infiltrated my domain. From my vantage point atop the leather armchair, I watched my human perform his ritual of unboxing. He handled the small plastic man with a reverence I usually reserve for a freshly opened can of tuna. He positioned the figure, codenamed "Blue Gi," on the mantelpiece, a prime piece of real estate I had long ago claimed. Blue Gi stood there, fists clenched, frozen in a pose of absurd aggression. An intruder. Later, when the house was draped in shadow and the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator, my investigation began. A silent leap carried me to the mantel. I circled the subject. He was rigid, his painted-on eyes staring into a void only he could see. He smelled of nothing, a hollow man. I prodded his articulated leg with a curious paw. It gave way with a faint click. Sixteen points of vulnerability. This was information. The human, in his carelessness, had left a small box of evidence on the end table below. Inside, a gruesome collection of spare heads and hands. A criminal's toolkit. But brute force is for the unsophisticated. Knocking him to the floor would be a fleeting pleasure, a crime of passion. I am an artist of subtle chaos. I selected a single, disembodied, open-palmed hand from the evidence box and carried it carefully back to the scene. I then set to work on the subject himself. Using my nose and the precise application of paw-pressure, I began to reposition Blue Gi. A bend at the waist here, a twist of a leg there. The "16 points of articulation" made him surprisingly compliant. When my work was complete, the fearsome martial artist was no more. He was now bent over at a ninety-degree angle, his head near the mantel's surface, one leg pointing straight up at the ceiling in a pose of extreme and comical distress. I placed the spare hand I had procured just in front of his face, as if he were contemplating it in his moment of crisis. The next morning, my human would find this bizarre sculpture. He would be confused, perhaps even annoyed, but he would not understand the message. It was a declaration: this is my house, and everyone in it, plastic or otherwise, is merely a prop for my amusement. The little man wasn't a toy. He was a canvas. And for that, he had earned my respect.
