Pete's Expert Summary
My Human has acquired what appears to be a monument to poor taste and loud noises. It is a large, plastic reptile of offensive coloration, apparently locked in combat with a structure vaguely resembling a building. The primary function seems to involve flinging a small, metallic beetle—they call it a "car"—at the beast's face. I will concede that the rapid, whizzing motion of the beetle holds a flicker of predatory interest, and the spinning eyes of the plastic monstrosity could make for a satisfying target for a well-placed paw-slap. However, the entire ordeal of being "eaten" and then unceremoniously "pooped out," as the Human gleefully described it, seems dreadfully undignified. It is likely a colossal waste of energy that could be better spent meditating in a sunbeam.
Key Features
- Take on a hungry T-Rex that has attacked the Hot Wheels City fire station with a 1:64 scale toy car
- The playset features a large-scale dinosaur nemesis that has eyes that spin every time cars whizz past until it gets knocked out
- Launch cars hard enough to spin the eyes and knock out the dino's teeth only to get eaten and then pooped out
- Reload and relaunch, but this time get detoured through the fuel station. Might as well fill up for the next run
- Don't quit now With refueling complete, launch again and get the K.O., saving friends and Hot Wheels City
- As they battle the nemesis, kids learn the importance of persistence and determination
- Kids 4 years old and up will love the challenge of defeating the dinosaur with their Hot Wheels vehicles
A Tale from Pete the Cat
I observed the ritual from my customary throne atop the credenza. The large Human and its smaller, more chaotic offspring were gathered before a newly erected shrine of lurid orange and blue plastic. They called it "Hot Wheels City," but I saw it for what it was: a temple dedicated to a false, roaring god. The ceremony began with the placement of a tiny, red metal scarab onto a long plastic tongue. With a flick of a lever, the offering was flung forth, a screaming arc of motion that culminated in a *thwack* against the idol's chin. The beast’s eyes spun wildly, a sign of its grotesque pleasure. The small Human shrieked in delight, a chant to the plastic deity. They performed the ritual again and again, their fervor growing with each launch. They spoke of "knocking out its teeth" and "getting eaten," bizarre tenets of this strange new faith. At one point, the scarab was indeed consumed by the reptile's gaping maw, only to be excreted from its posterior moments later. The Humans cheered this vulgar miracle. They even took the defiled offering to a small, secondary altar—a "fuel station"—to anoint it before the next sacrifice. It was all a deeply disturbing display of primitive worship. This sacrilege could not be tolerated in my domain. I am the rightful object of veneration in this household, the soft-furred, silent sovereign whose purr is the true blessing. To see my subjects groveling before this hollow, mass-produced effigy was an insult of the highest order. I would not deign to attack their god—that would be an admission of its power. No, my response had to be one of pure, unassailable authority. With the slow, deliberate grace of a king inspecting his lands, I descended from the credenza. I ignored the plastic altar and its frantic acolytes. I walked directly past the roaring reptile and onto the center of the rug, the very heart of the room. There, I flopped onto my side, exposing the magnificent white expanse of my belly. I began to purr, a low, resonant rumble that vibrated with ancient power and the promise of immense softness. The ritual ceased instantly. The Humans, their attention drawn by a force far greater than spinning plastic eyes, turned to me. The small one approached, hand outstretched. The false god was forgotten. Order, and proper worship, had been restored. The toy was not merely unworthy; it was blasphemy.
