Now I've got electric blood.

Tom spat into a small cup, watching the tobacco shards swirl tiny black spiral galaxies against the eggshell-white styrofoam. His brow furrowed under the weight of observation; partially over the events of the day, but mostly as he vaguely conceptualized that he would never understand the movement of the rogue strips of chew that manage to slip through his lips. Employing the most base form of denial, his eyes focused on the contents of the cup, feeling Will's eyes burrowing through the top of his skull. Admitting Will existed would be a consent to admitting his part in the atrocities; with a sigh, he let his shoulders fall back, let his eyes meet Will's.
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do, Will? Kill him? Leave him dead for someone else to find? God knows what might happen if one of those assholes they call in can identify the bastard. It isn't like we're not all known confederates here.” Tom spat in disgust before realizing how such a simple action can convey more to Will than anything he could say at this point. “I say we simply disappear. I mean, keep an eye on the fucker, but as far as he knows, we're gone.”
“Well, if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil, it would be him. I'll be good God-damned if I let that son of a bitch take another step on Earth.” Tom cringed; fools can be suffered so much more easily than melodrama. Times like these made it all the more obvious that Will was an ardent admirer of reality television, despite his inability to realize that the only realistic element of the programming was that a script actually did exist. When professional wrestling would no longer hold the masses...
“Right. I understand that, but we've been friends for so long. Why the hell would we have to go that far?” Tom's eyes scanned the faux-adobe stucco of the room, ran along the lush green felt of the poker table at which they sat; almost imagined he could see his pores opening and closing in time with his heart.
“Oh, come on, Tom...” Will had begun one of his overly-moral tirades. “... saw the poor woman...” Tom involuntarily closed his eyes, fighting the memory, trying to convince himself that it was simply a red pulp. “... brutality; a sheer...” Tom's throat seized to keep the vomit down. “... human life. He can't...”
His mind wandered to the man in the other room, sleeping on one of the cots with his back to the door, completely oblivious of his fate. The memories ran through Tom's head like a Kodachrome 8-millimeter reel-to-reel: shared family picnics; Robert, eight years old, bringing him a dead frog; double-dating to their high-school prom. He looked down at his arm again, calmed at the sight of the ink deep in his wrist.
“Fuck it.” He rose to his feet, knocking the chair back, pulling the pistol from the waist of his pants. Will's eyes followed Tom to the door, impassively observing the three flashes lighting the room. Tom's silhouette on the far wall reminded Will of an illustration of the hunchback of Notre Dame he had seen as a child, ringing the bells as part of his daily regime. Later, in the middle of testifying, he would realize that he didn't remember hearing the shots, only seeing Tom's shadow doing the dirty work that he himself could never do.
Tom exited the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. His shirt looked as though Robert had resisted with a can of dull red spray-paint, and tiny droplets collected on his cheeks and rolled down to his chin like sanguine snowballs. For the first time in the 12 years of their friendship, Will realized that he had always been afraid of Tom.
“What do we do?” Will's meek voice disturbed the catatonic trance in which Tom had found himself. He spat his resignation and sighed, eyeing Will with the furious sorrow of a cornered animal.
“We dig.”