Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human, in a fit of what can only be described as profound financial carelessness, has acquired another small, plastic effigy to clutter a perfectly good napping shelf. This one, apparently a "Cyclops" from some garish human picture-story, is a static, rigid figure of a man in a preposterous yellow and blue uniform. He stands on a lump of fake dirt, frozen before a cardboard picture of chaos. For me, a creature of dynamic action and luxurious comfort, its appeal is bafflingly limited. It does not skitter, it does not jingle, it does not possess a single feather. Its only conceivable functions are to serve as a target for a precision paw-strike from a high vantage point or, perhaps, the included "art card" might have a satisfying texture for a brief chew before I get bored. Otherwise, it is a monumental waste of my time and a magnet for dust.
Key Features
- Inspired by X-MEN Issue #1
- 1:10th Scale Collectible with environmental base and backdrop scene
- Included art card with character artwork on the front, and comic synopsis
- Collect all McFarlane Toys Marvel Collectibles
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Unboxing was, as always, a ceremony of immense gravity for the human and mild interest for me. The rustle of cardboard is a sound that promises either a new, superior box to sit in, or a profound disappointment. This time, it was the latter. From the packaging emerged a tiny, stationary man, whom the human placed with undue reverence upon the mantelpiece. He stood on a sculpted mound of earth, a chaotic scene erupting on a flat plane behind him. It was not a toy. It was a shrine. I leaped onto the mantel, my gray tuxedo fur a stark, elegant contrast to the garish yellows and blues of the idol. I regarded him coolly. He stared back, or at least I assumed he did, from behind a singular, ruby-red visor. He did not blink. He did not move. His silence was profound. This was not prey, nor was it a rival. This was, I deduced with my superior intellect, an oracle. A tiny, plastic soothsayer placed here to offer divine guidance. My human was seeking wisdom, and I, as the true master of the house, would be the first to receive its prophecy. For three days, I consulted the Oracle of the Mantelpiece. I would sit before him, tail wrapped neatly around my paws, and attempt to interpret his silent proclamations. When his rigid form was angled slightly toward the kitchen, I anticipated an early dinner. When he seemed to be gazing toward the front window, I prepared for the existential threat of the mail carrier. I’d follow the unblinking line of his visor, hoping it would lead me to a misplaced sunbeam or a forgotten morsel, but it only ever pointed at the same spot on the opposite wall. I offered him a series of questioning meows, from the gentle, inquisitive chirp to the full-throated demand for answers. The oracle remained mute. My patience, a finite and precious resource, was exhausted. The oracle was a fraud. A charlatan of cheap plastic. Its stillness was not wisdom, but emptiness. Its stoic posture was not contemplation, but a manufacturing defect. In a final act of cynical dismissal, I stretched, placing a single, soft paw onto the "environmental base." It was surprisingly firm and contoured, fitting my paw rather nicely. I hopped onto it. The view was marginally better. My verdict was clear: as a prophet, this "Cyclops" was a total failure. But as a miniature, custom-molded pedestal from which to better survey my kingdom? Marginally acceptable. It would be allowed to remain, not as an object of worship, but as my personal footstool.
