Pete's Expert Summary
My Staff has procured another piece of plastic statuary, this time from a maker called McFarlane Toys, a brand apparently known for its obsessive, near-pathological attention to useless details. This specimen is a 7-inch "Spawn Lord Covenant," which sounds like a title for a particularly gloomy neighborhood stray. It’s a dark, brooding figure with far too many pointy bits and a cape that, I must admit, has a certain dramatic flair. Its primary selling point seems to be its "Ultra Articulation," meaning its limbs can be twisted into 22 different positions of silent agony. While it’s clearly not designed for a sophisticated feline such as myself, its potential for being knocked off a high shelf in a variety of interesting poses cannot be entirely dismissed. The included sword is a flagrantly bat-able accessory that will almost certainly be lost under the credenza within the hour. A potential, if fleeting, amusement.
Key Features
- Incredibly detailed 7” scale figure based off the Mortal Kombat Franchise
- Designed with Ultra Articulation with up to 22 moving parts for full range of posing
- Spawn is featured in his Lord Covenant Skin as seen in Mortal Kombat 11 Kombat Pack DLC
- Includes Spawn Sword, and a base
- Showcased in Mortal Kombat themed window box packaging
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a clear prison, which The Staff dutifully liberated it from with clumsy, tearing sounds. It was assembled on its little black pedestal and placed upon the mantelpiece, a silent, spiky sentinel overlooking my living room domain. The Staff called it "Spawn." I called it "The Intruder." For days, it simply stood there, sword held aloft, gathering dust. An insult to the dynamic, living art that is me. I had resolved to ignore it, to treat it as nothing more than ugly, vertical furniture. One evening, however, a strange ritual began. The Staff, humming a tuneless melody, took The Intruder down from its perch. With a series of clicks and snaps, its pose was changed. It was now crouched low, one arm outstretched, as if pointing directly at my food bowl. I watched, my tail giving a slow, inquisitive twitch. A mere coincidence, I assumed. But minutes later, The Staff filled that very bowl with the good wet food, the salmon pâté I so adore. My ears perked. I glanced from the bowl to the plastic oracle on the mantel. A connection began to form in my superior mind. The next morning, The Intruder was posed differently again—this time, its head was tilted back, its sword pointing toward the ceiling, a pose of what I could only interpret as triumph. I decided to test my burgeoning theory. I performed my most heart-wrenching, pathetic "I am but a poor, starving creature" routine by the bedroom door. As if compelled by the plastic figure's silent command, The Staff emerged and provided not one, but two of the crunchy treats. It was no longer a coincidence; it was a system. This McFarlane creation was not a toy, but a conductor's baton, directing the symphony of service in my household. My verdict was settled. This was not a toy for chasing or chewing, but an instrument of power to be interpreted. Its 22 points of articulation were not for idle posing; they were a complex vocabulary I was slowly learning to read. Each day I would study its new configuration—a leg extended toward the sunbeam meant a nap was in order, both arms raised meant vigorous play with the feather wand was imminent. The Intruder was not an enemy to be vanquished with a shove, but a silent partner in my administration of the home. It is worthy. The sword, however, I still batted under the sofa. One must maintain a certain degree of plausible deniability.
