“Good evening, and welcome to another exciting episode of Bloat Till You Burst!”

Alton MacGregor, America's favorite game show host, strutted across the stage in his pink-and-yellow tuxedo, his thin lips twisted into something akin to a smile. A dozen botched plastic surgeries gave him an uncanny look, like a wax figure come to life, and the surgically-implanted microphone gave his voice a mechanical buzz. A jaunty jazz tune rang out from the studio band as two uniformed officers hauled the night's contestant on stage. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and a similar shackle held his feet together, forcing him to take baby steps. One of the officers, frustrated by the prisoner's slowness, unslung his machine pistol and slammed the metal stock into the back of his neck, making him stumble and fall face-first onto the vibrantly-colored floor. Without missing a beat, MacGregor crouched down and pulled the prisoner's hair to give the camera a good view of his face.

“Tonight's contestant is Mark Sullivan, convicted of uttering seditious comments about our nation's glorious infrastructure! The sentence, to be carried out on live TV, is...” He looked up, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the studio audience, who dutifully responded.

“Death by popping!” A thousand voices came together in chorus, and countless millions more across the nation. The prisoner groaned as his guards pulled him to his feet, and with a gun digging into the small of his back, they marched him to the chair in the middle of the stage. It was just an ordinary armchair, or so it seemed; But as the prisoner was shoved down, his eyes went wide, and he let out a yelp as a cold metal tube slipped up through the seat, piercing the backside of his orange jumpsuit. The flared tip came to a stop just inside his rectum, and when he tried to leap to his feet, the guards shoved him back down again.

“P-Please! The train was late, I was annoyed! I didn't mean to-” A gun butt slammed into his solar plexus, knocking the wind from his lungs.

“Now, folks, as I'm sure you're aware, prison food isn't very good,” MacGregor chuckled, patting the gasping prisoner on the head, “In fact, there isn't any at all – Our friend here has spent the past ten weeks at a work camp in Missouri. Lord only knows what he's been eating just to survive. So, in the name of human kindness, let's give him a snack! Boys!”

The wide cargo door swung open, and a forklift drove right on stage, carrying a rainbow-striped keg on its tines. Men in overalls came out to help wheel it into position, attaching a hose to one end, and the other to the back of the chair. Reaching into his jacket, Alton held up a long, thin can, marked with the instantly-identifiable logo of America's favorite soft drink.

“That's right, folks. This episode is sponsored by Chuggo Cola, the only meal replacement soda on the market. Every can is packed with vitamins and minerals essential to the continuation of human life. I drink one every morning – How else do you think I maintain my devilish good looks?” He took a long sip and let out a satisfied sigh, then turned from the camera to spit the foul-tasting liquid back in. An assistant rushed over to take it, and by the time he turned back to the audience, his usual pseudo-smile had returned.

“Now then, ladies and gentlemen, shall we do the honors?” He fingered the lever at the top of the keg, and the audience roared in excitement. Mark Sullivan, whose heinous crimes led him to this fate, let out a yelp of pain and surprise as cold, fizzy soda flooded up the tube and into his bowels, flowing through yards of complicated pipework to his stomach. It was thin from weeks of hunger, but within seconds began rounding out as the first gallon or so rushed in, propelled by the humming pump attached to the keg. The audience grew even louder, drowning out his pleas for mercy as his belly pressed against his jumpsuit, making him look five months pregnant.

“As we all know, Lady Liberty is a fair and benevolent ruler. We are but worms compared to her greatness, and should we question her firm guiding hand, we will be crushed like so many insects. Individuality is nothing but a treasonous myth.”

Everybody nodded their heads automatically, and a few made the distinctive Liberty Salute, throwing their hands in the air with pinkie fingers extended. Of course, most paid little attention to the lecture, which they heard daily over the public loudspeakers; They were too entranced by the criminal's swelling stomach, the buttons on his suit starting to spread apart to reveal the pale white skin beneath. All that carbonated liquid was starting to really affect him now, and with every exhalation he let out a small belch, growing in loudness and frequency as gallon upon gallon flooded into him. The first button burst with a thunderous snap, drowned out by the ensuing applause.

“Did anybody catch that button? Whoever brings it to the front desk gets an extra five ration points!” The ensuing chaos took everybody's attention from the spectacle on stage. Everybody, that is, except for Alton MacGregor, the ever-professional host. A long, slender switchblade appeared from within his suit, which he drove across the surface of the victim's overfilled belly, leaving a thin red line. One after another, he sliced off the buttons, letting his swollen gut hang freely between his legs. It was bigger than a basketball, bigger than an octuple pregnancy; MacGregor could barely wrap his arms around it, pressing an ear against the poor victim's bloated belly button.

“Sounds like you're about ready to blow!” He laughed, and thrust the switchblade into the chair's arm, less than an inch from the reddening, increasingly taut stomach. Mart, or whatever his name was, tried to beg for mercy, but his constant belches made it difficult to understand – Not that anybody cared. Somebody must've found the button, because punches were being thrown in the audience. One guard unslung his machine pistol and fired a few rounds into the rafters, plinking off the catwalks and studio lights; A worker in overalls screamed and plummeted to the floor, landing with a wet smack atop several audience members. That was enough to calm them down, at least enough to finish the show.

The creaking, groaning prisoner was nearing the point of eruption, his yoga ball sized stomach glowing an angry red. In one last, desperate bid for survival, he mustered up his energy and somehow, with extreme difficulty, managed to pull himself off the pump. He stood up for less than a second, his belly hanging before him like a vast parade blimp; Then, the sheer weight of his belly caught up with him, and he let out a horrifying shriek as he toppled forwards. His belly erupted the instant it touched the floor, bursting apart like an overfilled water balloon. A wave of blood and soda washed over the audience, the guards, and the host. The armchair's spout continued spraying for a few more seconds as the keg finally ran out, and workers, now in white clean suits, wheeled it back onto the forklift and out the way it came.

The prisoner's corpse was sliced up and distributed to the audience members to take home; Some were so eager, they dug in right there in the studio, the camera focusing on their smiling, blood-smeared faces. Cans of Chuggo Cola were also handed out, and Alton himself hurled a few into the audience, leading to shouts of pain and at least one broken collarbone. The studio band launched into the outro, and Alton flashed his famous half-smile.

“That's a wrap, folks! We'll clean up and be back with another exciting explosion tomorrow evening, same time, same channel!”