Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has brought forth this... silver insect. It's a Losi Micro-B Buggy, a brand I recognize from the more serious catalogs the human leaves open on the glowing rectangle. This isn't the usual plastic refuse. It purports to be a miniature, high-performance racing vehicle, complete with an aluminum chassis and proper oil-filled shocks, which suggests it won't shatter into a thousand unsatisfying pieces upon first contact. Its primary selling point seems to be its absurd speed—over thirteen miles per hour—which is either a gross exaggeration or a genuine threat to the tranquility of my afternoon nap. With a twenty-minute run time, it offers a substantial window for mayhem. It could be a truly worthy adversary for a hunt across the hardwood plains, or it could just be a noisy, high-strung nuisance. The quality is apparent, but its playability has yet to be proven.
Key Features
- Recharge in an hour and race nonstop for 20 minutes
- 13+ mph top speed — insane for a micro!
- TLR-inspired design, with aluminum chassis and oil-filled shocks
- Fully assembled with no additional items needed
- Easy, cost effective way to get into RC racing
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing was presented to me on the oriental rug in the main sunning room, a glint of silver and black against the deep crimson patterns. My human placed it down with a reverence usually reserved for that dreadful singing fish. I gave it a cursory sniff. It smelled of ozone and clean metal, sterile and uninteresting. I was about to turn away, to give my pristine tuxedo front a proper washing, when the human picked up a strange black contraption. With a twitch of his thumb, the silver insect shrieked to life. It did not move like a toy. Toys lurch. They bumble. This thing… it *flowed*. It darted away with a speed that was genuinely startling, its tiny tires gripping the rug fibers before launching onto the hardwood. I watched, my initial disdain warring with a primal spark of interest. The human, assuming my stillness was an invitation, drove it in a wide, sweeping arc. I noted, with an engineer’s eye, how the oil-filled shocks absorbed the transition from rug to wood. There was no clumsy bounce, just a smooth, predatory glide. This was not a mouse; this was a desert scorpion, all speed and sharp angles. Instead of giving chase, I ascended to the arm of the great leather chair. From this vantage point, I could observe the entire arena. The human, a simple creature, mistook my tactical repositioning for aloofness and grew bolder. He sent the buggy careening towards the chair, a direct challenge. I waited. The whine of its tiny motor grew louder, a mechanical battle cry. Just as it was about to clip the leg of the chair, I dropped. Not a pounce, not a leap, but a silent, calculated fall, landing with all the grace my ancestors passed down to me. My paw, a soft gray hammer tipped with ivory claws, came down squarely on its roof. The buggy’s wheels spun uselessly against my paw pad, its frantic energy utterly contained. The human made a noise of surprise. I held it there for a moment, feeling the vibration of its thwarted power. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I sent it skittering on its side. I looked at the human, then back at the silenced buggy. I gave a slow, deliberate blink. The verdict was rendered. This was a worthy distraction. He could have his twenty minutes.
