everything depends on the getaway

"Screw this dump!" says Giblets. "This universe is old and fat and smells like smelling and Giblets is busting out!"
"Should we go over the wall or take the tunnel?" says me. I been diggin a tunnel.
"Nuts to the tunnel!" says Giblets. "What we do is we make like we're sick. Then when God comes in to check on us we punch im in the liver an run out the door!"
"They'll be on the lookout so we're gonna need disguises if we wanna make it the resta the way," says me. "If we bop Europe an Australia on the head we can sneak out in their continent costumes!"
"Then it's only three hundred eighty thousand miles to the moon. We can swim for it!" says Giblets. "Giblets's crater friends can smuggle us to the border from there."
"We'll haveta travel undercover if we wanna stay aheada the law," says me. "By the time we reach the checkpoint I'll be Henri DuMarche, international financier, socialite and diamond thief, an you can be NGC 5024, a mild-mannered globular cluster."
"The guards will suspect nothing!" says Giblets. "At least not til a stray gust of wind dislodges our fake plastic mustaches at the last minute and blows our cover in fronta the feds."
"That's when they'll hit the alarm an call the cops an the marines an Jesus an Batman an everybody," says me. "They'll be parked on the border in their uparmored emergency defense nukes givin us one last chance to surrender before they preemptively retaliate against our potential refusal to surrender."
"But we'll just fire up our '67 T-Bird and head for the barricades yelling 'come and get us copper'!" says Giblets.
"Which is when they will get us," says me. "With their many, many guns and bullets."
"The bullets will hit us in slow motion from many different camera angles to the sound of a grinding guitar solo to indicate that we are bad bad dudes who lived a bad bad life," says Giblets.
"But not so bad it can't be replayed in our last moments in the form of a tastefully-edited montage of our most poignant flashbacks," says me.
"Giblets will regret nothing!" says Giblets. "Except for the getting killed part, that was real stupid."
"They'll bury us in a special live TV press conference with senators an popes an the President of Space," says me. "And there'll be cake an music an dancin bears an a crack team a animatronic talkin news generals to tell everybody about this bold new victory in the War on Us!"
"It's true," says Giblets. "We were a menace to our freedom and had to be stopped before we could threaten us again."
"But there could be even more of us out there right now, doin things an being stuff!" says me. "And none of us can sleep at night till all of us have been brought to justice."
"The army and the FBI and the space police will explain it all in loud slow voices over our tastefully-laminated corpses so the world can understand the dire threat it poses to the world," says Giblets.
"Which is when they'll notice those aren't our corpses at all," says me, "but clever papier-mache dummy corpses we got to escape for us back when we took the tunnel."
"Huzzah for the tunnel!" says Giblets. "It was Giblets's finest hour!"
"While the cops're distracted we'll sneak out with a coupla billion of our closest friends an punch out the sun in the guard tower," says me. "Then we can go back an bust the rest out an topple the ancien régime!"
"The triumphant cry of revolution will call out through the streets: Vive Fáfnir! Vive Gibléts!" says Giblets. "Radical Fafbloggists will demand a new era of Fafno-Gibletsian rule over the cosmos, and none will be able to stand in their way!"
"At least till they figure out we're not there," says me, "'cause we'll already have slipped out the back door into the new universe."
"But will it be any better than the old universe?" says Giblets.
"Well it can't be any worse," says me.