Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to think that I, a being of supreme comfort and refined taste, would be interested in this... plastic effigy. It's a small, grim-looking man-doll from a company called Diamond Select Toys, rendered in the stark monochromatic austerity that, I must admit, complements my own formalwear. He stands a mere seven inches tall, which is a respectable size for batting off a shelf, and his purported "16 points of articulation" suggest he can be contorted into various states of undignified collapse. The most intriguing feature, however, is not the sullen man himself, but the small bag of what my human calls "weapons." To me, these are simply exquisitely-sized, potentially skittery floor-prey. The man is a mere vessel; the true prize is his tiny, lose-able luggage.
Key Features
- Action Figurine of Rick Grimes: 7-inch action figure of the hero Rick Grimes with a bag to carry a variety of weapons from the hit comic book series - The Walking Dead
- Scale and Height: This 1/10 scale action figure measures approximately 7-inch tall
- 16 Articulation Points: This meticulously crafted figure boasts 16 points of articulation, allowing for a wide range of poses
- Sculpted in Black-and-White: It comes in black-and-white to channel the feel of the groundbreaking comic
- Packed in Window Box: The figure is carefully packaged in a full-color window box, making it not only a playable item but also a collectible piece for display
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The crime scene was the mantelpiece, a dusty plateau I reserve for judging the world below. That's where the human placed him, still trapped in his transparent prison. The box called him a "hero," but I saw only a suspect. He was a silent, stone-faced man, clad in shades of ash and bone, staring out with an intensity that suggested he'd seen things—probably the bottom of a food bowl. I watched from the arm of the sofa, tail twitching like a metronome counting down to an interrogation. My human, the warden, finally left the room, and my investigation began. With a leap that was nothing short of liquid poetry, I landed silently beside the box. I peered through the plastic film. He was carrying a satchel, a tiny bag that practically screamed "I contain objects of immense interest to felines." My human soon returned, liberating the suspect from his cell and posing him near the edge of the mantel. The fool. He positioned the man's arm to aim a tiny, harmless-looking object, then left again, satisfied with his grim little diorama. The suspect stood there, a silent challenge in my domain. I didn't rush. A true predator knows the value of patience. I circled him, sniffing the air. He smelled of nothing but industry and plastic—a professional. No history, no allegiances. I nudged his leg with my nose. He was rigid, unyielding. I gave a gentle pat with a paw, claws sheathed. He wobbled precariously. This was the moment of truth. This wasn't about play; it was about gravity, my oldest and most reliable accomplice. I gave him a firm, decisive shove. He toppled with a satisfyingly light *clack*, but his satchel, his bag of secrets, flew from his grasp and tumbled to the rug below. It burst open, spilling its contents: a delightful collection of small, hard-plastic shapes. Ah, so that was his game. He wasn't the prize; he was the delivery service. I hopped down, leaving the fallen "hero" to his fate on the mantel. My verdict was clear: the man himself is a bore, a stoic piece of junk. But his accessories? His accessories show promise. They skitter across the hardwood with a delightful sound, and one of them is already safely hidden under the radiator for a 3 a.m. celebration. He can stay. For now.
