The beer bottle, predictably, does nothing. It hits the sand, and fails to explode or do anything to help. The ATVs at the back of the pack don't seem to be paying too much attention to the race, or whatever it is, and are swerving around to run over beach-goers.

Wilford checks his inventory for anything that would help, but it's crammed full of crayons and toys and a box of crackers. It's a rather alarming thing to realise in a moment where he'd really like to have a gun.

He remembers all too late that he locked everything up in his dressing room. Luckily (unluckily?) the jet ski guys come back with their grenades, and decide to start flinging everything they have at the rampaging ATVs.

"Time to run," he says, turning to try to run away from the pack of speeding death machines that are already starting to make the path back to the boardwalk a little scary.