Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought home a large, colorful box from the manufacturer BANDAI. It is not, as one might hope, a bulk delivery of freeze-dried salmon. Instead, it appears to be a vessel for a bizarre human ritual involving dozens of smaller, crinkly packets. The supposed "toy" is a collection of flat, shiny squares of processed tree pulp covered in cartoon monsters. The human's goal seems to be accumulating specific squares they deem "rare," a concept lost on a creature of my inherent and singular value. While the crinkly wrappers might offer a moment's diversion and the empty box a prime napping location, the cards themselves are a profound waste of attention that could be better spent admiring me.
Key Features
- BT21 Rarities Common: 40 Uncommon: 26 Rare: 22 Super Rare: 12 Secret Rare: 2 106 card types *Also includes alternate art and/or design cards from the above types.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with an air of misplaced importance. It smelled sharply of ink and fresh cardboard, scents that signal human activity, not feline enrichment. My human placed it on the large table with a reverence I typically reserve for the opening of a new can of tuna. A ceremonial disemboweling began, unleashing a cacophony of crinkling plastic as twenty-four small packets were freed from their prison. I watched from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching in mild annoyance. This was clearly going to take a while. One by one, the packets were torn open, and the flimsy rectangles within were slid out. The human would scrutinize each one, sorting them into piles. A frown for this pile, a nod for that one, and—on rare occasions—a soft gasp of excitement. They muttered alien words like "Super Rare" and "alternate art." I tilted my head, attempting to decipher the hierarchy. They were all flat. They all had garish drawings. None of them squeaked, fluttered, or tasted remotely of chicken. I could not fathom the logic. My own pristine, white-bibbed form is a work of art, a "Secret Rare" in a world of common tabbies, yet it garners only routine appreciation. Eventually, the human was distracted by the shrill summons of the microwave. They left the piles unattended, a mosaic of mediocrity spread across the table. This was my opportunity for a thorough quality inspection. I leaped silently onto the table, my paws making no sound. I sniffed a pile designated as "Common." It smelled of nothing. I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped the top card. It skittered away, a pathetic, weightless thing that tumbled ignominiously to the floor. There was no thrill in the chase, no satisfying resistance. I turned my attention to the single, enshrined card set apart from the others, the one that had elicited that gasp of excitement. It rested in a clear, hard plastic sleeve. It depicted some sort of overwrought lizard with too many wings. This, I deduced, was the treasure. I considered batting it to the floor, asserting the dominance of organic perfection over printed fantasy. But a better idea bloomed in my magnificent brain. With deliberate grace, I lowered my soft, gray body directly on top of the protected card, tucking my paws beneath my chest and letting out a deep, rumbling purr. The human returned to find their prize obscured by a far greater one. The message was clear: The game is irrelevant. I am the jackpot. I am the only collectible that matters.
