McFarlane Toys - DC Direct Page Punchers Deathstroke (DC Rebirth) 7in Figure with Comic

From: McFarlane Toys

Pete's Expert Summary

My human seems to have acquired another plastic idol for his strange desk-shrine. This one, from a maker called "McFarlane Toys," is a rigid-looking fellow in garish orange and blue armor. They boast of its "Ultra Articulation," which I translate to mean its limbs can be knocked into amusingly undignified positions with a well-placed swat. It comes with several small, lose-able trinkets—blades and an extra head—which are, frankly, the most promising feature here. These are prime candidates for batting under the heaviest piece of furniture in the house. The included paper booklet is, of course, utterly useless except perhaps as a slightly crinkly napping surface. Overall, it's not a plush mouse and it doesn't chirp, but the potential for creating clattering chaos and stealing its components gives it a slight edge over a simple dust bunny.

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 3 weapons, extra masked head, 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 Unboxing was a ritual I observed with feigned indifference from my throne atop the warm cable box. The human, with the focused intensity he usually reserves for opening a can of my wet food, carefully sliced open the plastic prison. From it, he extracted the Orange-and-Blue Sentry and its various accoutrements. He spent an absurd amount of time posing the figure on its little black pedestal, making it hold a tiny plastic sword in a way he must have thought was menacing. To me, it was just a new, oddly shaped statue cluttering up my skyline. Once his masterpiece was complete, he left the room, leaving the Sentry to guard a stack of papers. I flowed from the cable box like a silent, gray mist. The mission, as I defined it in that moment, was simple: to test the structural integrity of this new installation. I leaped onto the desk with a soft thud, my paws making no sound on the wooden surface. The Sentry stared blankly forward, its one visible eye a stark white dot. I gave it a preliminary sniff. It smelled of industry and paint, an affront to my refined senses. A gentle nose-boop confirmed my initial assessment: it was top-heavy and precariously balanced. The fools. My first strike was a test, a flick of the paw aimed not at the figure, but at the hilt of its little sword. The plastic-on-plastic *tink* was immensely satisfying. The sword flew from the Sentry’s grasp, skittering across the desk and coming to rest near the edge. A promising start. But why stop there? This thing had twenty-two moving parts, the human had muttered. I wanted to see them all move at once. I crouched, wiggled my hindquarters, and launched a full-scale assault. My paw connected squarely with its helmeted head. The result was glorious mayhem. The Sentry tumbled from its perch, its articulated limbs flailing in a chaotic pinwheel before it hit the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. Its extra head, which the human had placed beside it, bounced under the desk. The tiny guns scattered like seeds. The figure itself now lay in a heap, one leg bent at an angle nature never intended. I hopped down to survey my work. The Sentry itself was a passable diversion, a fine victim. But its little sword, now safely secured under the sofa for a later game of "Where Did That Go?", was the true prize. A worthy, if temporary, disruption to my afternoon nap schedule. The paper booklet it came with, I decided, would make a fine placemat for my victory slumber.