"The problem with game shows, is that there's nothing at stake," Harley crammed the last of her Big Mac into her mouth and chewed, pushing it into one cheek to talk around it. "Nothing to lose, but prizes to win." She wiped her hands on her jeans as she looked out the window. Outside the car, a steady drizzle fell, sending blobs of rainwater crawling down the glass, refracting the light to obscure the well-lit Walmart entrance ahead.

I shifted over in the back, to the middle seat, and leaned forward between her and Murray. Murray tapped his fingertips against the steering wheel with one hand, and fumbled in his jacket pocket with the other. "She's right, Wakey," he said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and flipping it open to offer me one. "Game shows are shit."

I shook my head at the smokes and then nodded at Murray. "That's what I'm saying, man, they need to make them more interesting. You can't tell me you wouldn't watch a show where they rip a limb off with a chainsaw if you fuck up an answer."

"Nobody would sign up for that, you maniac," Murray smiled as he lit a cigarette.

"They would if it paid well," I popped a french fry between my lips and took a drag, telling myself that sucking on salty potato was just as good as the real deal; quitting was tough, especially when your best friend smoked like the cure for cancer could be found at the bottom of a pack, like an ironic golden ticket. "I'd risk an arm for a couple million, I think," I said.

"Fuck, Wakey," Harley laughed. "You're messed up, bro."

"A finger then," I went on. "A few million, to chop your finger off on live TV?" 

She thought for a moment. "Maybe, I see your point," she said. "I've got more than enough of them."

"See? Far more interesting."

"I'd definitely watch them do it to prisoners," Murray gave the key a half-turn in the ignition, then pushed the button on the door, lowering the window a couple of inches. He blew smoke out into the damp, as fresh air rushed in the other way, cold and crisp. "I'd happily pay to watch them chop the balls off these scumbags."

"Fucking right," Harley pulled her phone out from between her thighs and swiped it to life. "Ten thirty. Walmart closes soon, where is this idiot?"

I took out my own phone, used my fingerprint to get in and opened up the messenger app I'd been using for the last few weeks. I tapped on the latest chat, and read through the last few messages: it had been almost half an hour since he had said he was leaving his house. 

Were u at? I wrote. im in walmart parking lot wtf. Send.

"He's coming, don't worry," I told Harley. "They always do."

"You know that one with the island, where they have to survive alone?" Murray asked.

"Survivor," Harley nodded. "It's called Survivor, babe."

"Right, Survivor," Murray jabbed at the air with his smoke. "It's horseshit, there's no surviving at all."

"Exactly," I said. My phone vibrated in my hands, and I opened the new message.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Two minutes away baby, cant wait! 🥰

"Two minutes," I shut off the screen and shifted over to sit behind Harley. I lowered the window half way, and looked out at the road leading off the highway towards the parking lot. "Green F-150, remember."

We sat and waited in silence, the only sounds being Murray's fingers beating a rhythm on the wheel and the soft sucking as he drew on his smoke. The parking lot was fairly empty, and I watched as a small, fat woman struggled to push a heavily-laden shopping cart towards her lonely minivan, and straight into a pothole. She cursed and grumbled as she splashed through the puddle, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet of the night. 

The entertainment was cut short by the rumble of an engine from the highway, and I turned to see the green Ford 150 pulling onto the access road. It sped past us towards the Walmart, and I raised my phone to get a picture of the licence plate as it flew by. Murray flicked his cigarette butt out the window and turned the key in the ignition. The engine sprung to life, and we followed the truck slowly, watching as it pulled up in a parking spot close to the entrance and its lights went dark. Murray slowed the car to a crawl as we approached. 

"Don't spook him," Harley warned. "Is it him, Wakey?"

I glanced at the truck as we passed by, trying to make out the driver through the windshield. He was a dark silhouette behind a shimmer of glare, impossible to make out. "I can't see. Park, and we'll just act like we're here to shop."

"We should have waited, we spooked him," Harley was panicking. "We should have let him get inside first."

"Calm down, Harl," said Murray, turning the car away from the truck and turning into the opposite lot. "He's not leaving, is he?"

He didn't. As Murray brought the car to a stop, I looked in the rearview mirror at the truck, as the driver's door opened and the overhead light came on. My heart jumped into my mouth as I recognised the red face and grey beard, and the awful tangle of greasy grey hair. I even recognised the bassball cap, shoved down on top of the mess, from one of his Facebook pictures. He had been with his family in the picture, on a beach during some family vacation, his son and daughter making sand castles, as he and his wife waved cans of beer at the camera. 

"It's definitely fucking him," I exclaimed. "Come on, let's get him before he gets inside." 

We got out the car, and moved to cut him off as he headed towards the Walmart doors. "Keep calm, Harley, we've got him," Murray said, as grey beard looked over, noticing us walking parallel to intercept him. "Shit!" Murray added, as the man suddenly turned in his tracks and darted back towards his truck. "Stop, stop, stop!" 

Harley and I chased after Murray's heels as he gave chase, the two of us falling behind quickly as he pulled ahead on his long legs. "Stop!" I cried out at grey beard. "We just want to talk!"

He didn't stop, not until he reached his truck, slamming into the door with his momentum, and Murray snatched the keys from his hand as he tried to stuff them into the lock. "No, you fucking don't," Murray growled, shoving them into his pocket. He raised his hands, palms out in peace. "Just stay there, don't come near me, buddy, we just wanna talk."

"I didn't do anything wrong!" The man shouted, his face redder than in any of his pictures.

Harley and I caught up, and she turned to me and whispered. "Wakey, the stream," she pulled put her phone. "I'll call the police."

Once again I took out my own, and opened up Facebook. We had been using it for a while to stream, before uploading the videos to Youtube, and had built up quite a following in the last year. I always enjoyed the live streams, especially when locals joined. It didn't seem to matter which city we ended up in; people were always interested. People were always the same. I started the stream, and the viewers started pouring in.

"Okay, we're live," I focused on grey beard's red face. He looked like he was going to cry. "Geoff, we just want to talk."

His eyes widened a little, just for a moment. "I'm not Geoff," he snapped.

"You are, Geoff," Murray insisted. He was a foot taller than the man, and built like a brick shit house, as we say back home. He immediately intimidated people without even trying. "Geoffrey Randle, aren't you?"

"What d'you want?" Geoff asked.

"Why are you here, sir?" I answered his question with my own. 

"I'm, I'm shoppin', is all," he spluttered.

"Don't lie," I said. "Why are you here, Geoffrey, be honest."

He bit his lip and furrowed his brow. "How d'you know my name?" 

I smiled. "You know how," I said. "I'm Becky, Geoff, pleased to meet you, at last."