Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a baffling display of poor judgment, has acquired a collection of four diminutive, rigid bipeds. They are apparently from a company called "McFarlane Toys," a name that has all the playful whimsy of a tax audit. These are not toys; they are tiny, grim-faced statues meant to stand there and collect dust that I could be shedding more productively. They don't crinkle, they aren't filled with catnip, and I suspect they would be deeply unsatisfying to chew. However, I must admit a flicker of interest in their assorted tiny implements—a crossbow, a sword, various small objects that look perfect for batting under the refrigerator, never to be seen again. The figures themselves are a waste of plastic, but their accessories... their accessories show a glimmer of potential for a brief, one-sided game of floor hockey.
Key Features
- Daryl Dixon as featured in AMC's The Walking Dead with his angel wings stitched biker vest, Deputy Rick Grimes as featured in AMC's The Walking Dead after the attack on Terminus, Merle Dixon as featured in AMC's The Walking Dead and Michonne as featured in AMC's The Walking Dead
- Includes up to 20 points of articulation for full range of posing and play
- Includes Daryl's crossbow, assault rifle, pistol, machete, Michonne’s katana, sheath and The Walking Dead bookmarks
- Collect all McFarlane Toys AMC's The Walking Dead figures
A Tale from Pete the Cat
They arrived in a clear prison, their faces set in expressions of profound misery. My human released them and stood them in a line on the low table, a new and unwelcome council assembled in my domain. I watched from the arm of the sofa, tail twitching in annoyance. They were stiff, cold, and smelled of nothing but the factory they were born in. One wore a vest with wings, a blatant mockery of the sparrows I see outside my window. Another clutched a sword, a poor imitation of my own formidable claws. I yawned, showing them the full pink interior of my mouth to convey my utter boredom, and turned my back for a ceremonial bath. Later, under the pale glow of a floor lamp, I returned to inspect the interlopers. The human had left them in a loose grouping on the rug. An idea, insidious and brilliant, began to form. These were not warriors or survivors, as the box might suggest. They were pilgrims. And I, in my magnificent gray and white tuxedo, was the mountain oracle they sought. Their "articulation" meant I could manipulate their quest. With a gentle nudge of my nose, I sent the uniformed one stumbling forward, his arms outstretched in supplication. I used a paw to pose the sword-wielding woman so she appeared to be guarding him against the perilous shag of the carpet. The winged one became the skeptic of the group. I positioned him off to the side, his little crossbow aimed not at a threat, but at the couch leg, as if questioning the very nature of his reality. The fourth one, a man with one arm ending in a strange metal point, I designated as the tragic figure. I knocked him over, so he lay prone before me, a sacrifice to the great oracle. I then retrieved his detached pistol and batted it until it slid perfectly between my paws, an offering I would graciously accept. I sat there for a long time, a silent, furry god presiding over my tableau of plastic supplicants. The drama was all of my own making, a silent play directed by a flick of my tail and the precise placement of a paw. These figures were not toys to be chased, but props for a far grander purpose: my own amusement through storytelling. They were utterly useless on their own, but as vessels for my narrative genius? I suppose, in a way, they were worthy of my attention. They could stay. The oracle had spoken.
