I looked at this task in the manner I look at all tasks - break it down, reinterpret, see if you can't come up with something new. I asked different dictionaries for inspiration, and found plenty. But then I thought to myself: "Mal, did Major Katsuragi teach you nothing? There's only one way to play with your food. Only one game."


The most dangerous game.




And so, roles were assumed, and rules were laid out. I would assume my normal handle: General Malaise; and would play the part of the small game hunter, tired of stalking vegetables and legumes.

Super Fly would be Ivan Superflyski: my mute, and completely Russian manservant.

Mr. Orange wanted to be Mr. Black, but that's my dog's name, and we can't have like four "Mr. Black"s running around in the same game, so Mr. Orange would be good enough.



General Mal and Ivan would take turns hiding Mr. Orange throughout the estate, and whoever found the prey on his 'seeking' turn would be allowed to destroy Mr. Orange.

Mr. Orange's motivation was simple.

If Mr. Orange could make it to the safety cage by 1pm, he would receive three American Dollars.

Which is a lot of money for an orange. Certainly enough to purchase a couple of Mandarin brides.

So, with a flourish from my manservant, the hunt began. (You can see the entire story in pictures below, dear reader)



Hidden in plastic cups and behind glass boards, sneaking through semi-dense foliage, Mr. Orange made it to the door before being spotted.

And so, Ivan would be the one to enjoy the kill, as soon as our prey could be apprehended. We set loose the hounds.

On the edge of the table, Mr. Orange was desperate for an out. He could imagine, just as well as we could, the sound of hesperidium flesh torn into tiny rinds.

That's when he saw it - a gate. A thick metal mesh, and a tidy spread of cash. He had found the safety zone.

Rushing inside, he heaved a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, it was past the deadline or something, point is, we already had three different kinds of combustible oil set out.

What followed reserved the general and superfly a special place in hell, if it ever turns out that God is of the citrus genus.

We insisted upon using this real old and beat can of WD-40 to keep the proceedings cinematic. The flame kept eating back up against the spray, and twice we just barely pulled the can away from a very rusty and generally unpleasant explosion. But something in that old can turned a separate and different something loose in the Bad Machine - we had started a gentleman's game and took it way too far. We had tasted overkill.

And before long, we had gathered all the necessary equipment to task a level further. Next time on Bad Machine Praxis, we bring you the results of OVERKILL.

Most of them look something like this.