Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in what I can only describe as a desperate bid for my fleeting approval, has acquired a piece of plastic junk from a company called "Magic Makers." The purported function of this device—a simple pen—is to create the illusion of piercing a piece of paper currency without leaving a mark. For a creature such as myself, who can phase through the spiritual plane during a deep nap, this is a rather pathetic attempt to manipulate the laws of physics. The only part of this entire charade that holds a glimmer of interest is the crinkly paper money itself, which has a satisfying texture. The pen, however, lacks any redeeming qualities; it doesn't wiggle, it isn't filled with catnip, and it certainly isn't worth disrupting my meticulously planned schedule of repose.
Key Features
- Force the pen through a bill and remove to show the bill with no holes
- Easy to learn and simple to perform
- Comes with step-by-step illustrated instructions
- For magicians of all ages and skill levels
- Magic tricks by Magic Makers
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The incident began, as most domestic farces do, with The Staff cornering me in a patch of afternoon sun. "Pete, you have to see this! It's incredible!" they chirped, holding up the offending object: a black pen that looked suspiciously like the ones I enjoy batting off the edge of the desk. My interest was, to put it mildly, nonexistent. I was in the middle of a complex thought experiment involving the quantum state of the bird outside the window, and this interruption was most unwelcome. They produced a crisp dollar bill—a worthy toy in its own right—and proceeded with their clumsy ritual. With a magician's flourish that had all the subtlety of a dog chasing its tail, they folded the bill and dramatically shoved the pen through its center. They held up the skewered currency, their face a mask of triumphant glee, as if they had just proven a fundamental theorem. I merely blinked. I have seen motes of dust dance in a sunbeam with more mystique. This was a simple matter of mechanics, an obvious sleight of hand—or in their case, a sleight of paw—that a kitten could see through. I allowed them to complete their little show, watching as they withdrew the pen and unfolded the bill to reveal its "miraculously" intact surface. They offered the pen to me, as if seeking a professional opinion. I rose, stretched languidly to show how little their performance had moved me, and padded over. I sniffed the pen. It smelled of cheap plastic and failure. I sniffed the bill. It smelled of deceit. Then, I looked The Staff dead in the eyes, lifted a single, perfectly manicured white paw, and delivered my verdict. With a precise tap, I sent the pen flying under the enormous, immovable sofa. Let the dust bunnies have it. Some "magic" is best left to disappear. I then returned to my sunbeam, victorious, to ponder more important matters.
