Pop
Imagine, if you will, that you're being chased by a masked figure.
Hell, they don't even need to be masked, it could be a nameless crook, it could be your best friend.
What matters is that they are chasing you, and that your life is in danger. You know as much by the wicked glint in their eye and the shiny metal revolver in their hand.
You run as long as you can, as far as you can. They never seem to be gaining on you, but they aren't slowing down, either. They don't even break a sweat as you feel your lungs burn, each new breath you draw feeling like sandpaper against the walls of your chest. Determined not to die, you keep running despite the pain, though you only make it a few more minutes before collapsing from sheer exhaustion.
When you finally lift your head up, you feel the cold metal ring of the muzzle grazing against your throbbing temples, stress induced headache pounding further.
They hand you a pink deflated balloon, with a simple set of instructions.
Fill the balloon with as much air as you can, as fast as you can, without popping it.
The closer you get it to max capacity, the less lethal the shot they fire will be- but go over the limit and the last things you'll ever hear are two pops.
So with your weakened lungs, you begin to blow.
Pathetically you flounder, rasping into the rubber tube as they push the barrel further and further against your skull, the tip threatening to dig into your skin and pierce the bone. As the balloon begins to strain against your hand, your vision starts to go blurry- lightheaded, your mind is roaring in pain. You look up at the figure as the floaters cloud your view and the balloon continues to overtake your vision. They keep smiling, clicking the hammer back in anticipation- and you stop.
Pinching the airway, you weakly tie the balloon closed as you anxiously wince and offer it to your captor. Sticking the revolver in their pocket for a moment with the wicked grin still plastered on their face, they weigh the balloon in their hands. Toss it back and forth. Dangle it in front of your nose teasingly. Finally, poking it with the tip of their nail, the balloon pops- sending you doubling over with your hands covering your face in shell shock.
"Relax, you actually did pretty good!" they declare with a sneer,
"I'll let you off easy with one in the calf."
Before you can even process what they said or even the fact you're not dead, they draw the revolver once more and fire another pop off into your left calf, sending streaks of searing, burning hurt along your leg and up to your brain. You shout, swear, start to cry- but they've already begun walking off. The game is over, you've more or less won. Better count your blessings and call an ambulance, right?