It's not like you mean to pee on your hand

Ralph managed to pull all of the old stuff off the shelf, so we have a fighting chance of keeping our contribution to this fiasco under wraps. So long as they don't think to go through the itemized receipts of every little old lady in this town from the last twelve years, we can safely play the dumb card for at least another week. This leaves our most pressing problems: A. Coordination of stories (and holy crap, we have NINE people to keep straight), B. Bribing the law (Fred's sister is back in town, so done and done), and C. Obfuscation of incriminating evidence. There's no way guys like us are going to be able to clean up the scene or dispose of anything without leaving nine or ten breadcrumb trails of stupidness back to this doorway, so we'll have to go with the "more is less" approach. From this point on, wash nothing, rinse nothing, and let the trash pile up like it's still November. The more red herrings we can scatter about, the more likely it is that the sherrif will do as he's done a hundred times before, dropping his hat on the ground behind his squad car and stamping it into the mud in frustrated resignation. Meanwhile, you and I will still be here, shrugging our shoulders and eating Ho-Hos. This is the good life.