This is probably as good a time as any to tell you that when I was sixteen, and had had my license for a couple of months, I took my parents' Honda to a gas station and filled it up with diesel. In fairness to myself, the gas station was arranged in a way they don't arrange gas stations very often, with the diesel pump in the middle of a row of unleaded pumps. Well, and I was sixteen. And sort of stupid. My father paid about $300, as I recall, to have the tank cleaned out. I consider it one of the biggest boneheaded maneuvers of my lifetime (and believe me, that is saying something), so no one is more qualified than I am to tell you what a boneheaded maneuver it is for these people, who I would point out are not sixteen, and should certainly have known better than to assume an unknown vehicle in an unfamiliar country takes unleaded without checking. (Someday, I'll tell you about the time I accidentally drove into downtown Minneapolis instead of downtown St. Paul...that one is a little harder to explain, but it involves the Metrodome, Fifth Street, and the fact that I'm not very bright.)
Aaron tells Arianne that the car is dead. "There's no acceleration," he says sadly. Then he gasps. "[Gasp!] There's no brake!" Heh. Something about the way he said that makes me laugh and laugh.
Michael and Kathy have managed to break down in a parking lot, interestingly enough. He tries the engine. It does nothing. He tries it again. It does nothing.
Teri and Ian are driving along in their usual grimly silent determination when things start to go wrong for them, too. "What happened here?" he asks. Incidentally, now that it's dark and he's inside the car, he has the hat on again. Great.
Zach notes that the FloZach car is deader than dead. Hmm.
In the Teri/Hat car, she says, "I hope you didn't put the wrong kind of gas in it." "I put regular gas in the car," he snaps before she's even finished talking. "I hope it wasn't a diesel," she says. "It wasn't diesel," he says in a you-idiot voice. "It was clearly marked 'gasoline.'" "No, the car," she says. "Oh," he says. Pause. "Good point." HA! Man, I hope she rubs this in for years. Not days, not weeks, not months. Years. I hope she rubs this in for years. I hope when they're dead and buried next to each other, her ghost occasionally turns to his ghost and moans, "Diiieeeeee-seeeeeeeeel."
The happy, relieved, diesel-pumping Firecop merrily speed down the highway, talking about how pleased they are to be making such good time. Similarly, John Vito and Jill are humming along. "We're not in Portugal anymore; you can't drive like a racecar driver," he admonishes her. She says she knows. Heh.