The Hangman's Cart by Arachnid

To the law's victims, it was terror ended by helpless agony. To the
spectators, it was justice -- with amusement, if not arousal, added
in. But to the hangman, it was simply another day's work.

Not the best occupation, he reflected. The spectators were gratified
by what he did, yet shunned him for it. On the other hand it paid, and
it was a calling. He was proud of his skill and tried to do his work
as gently as possible; if he quit, the condemned would still die, at
the hand of a person less careful. He'd heard of other hangmen who
were crass or incompetent -- some even did their work while blind
drunk. They botched things up, let nooses slide around to the front
where the person's neck bent painfully backward, yet they could still
gasp in some air -- never enough to survive, but enough to stretch
their struggles out for ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty minutes. He had
once botched one like that, and swore it would never happen again.

The transition to the cart had made his work a little more difficult.
On the ladder, he had always mounted before the victim, then towed
them up facing backward and stayed there behind them. When he pushed
them off with one hand on their shoulders, he could use the other to
make sure the knot stayed at the back. If he wasn't sure, or he heard
any gasping, he could climb to the top beam and lower his feet onto
their shoulders; the weight of two was always enough to do the job.
Now, with the cart, he couldn't keep things in hand. He had to be out
front guiding the horses, and that made things chancy.

There was another reason for his nostalgia. With ladies on the ladder
there had always been a certain thrill. They were close, indeed
snuggled. He could feel their warmth between his legs as they perched
on the ladder, uttering their final prayers, and look over their
shoulders at their heaving breasts -- women's garments were designed
to push up their plumpies, so that they rose and fell with every
breath. His hand on their often-bare shoulder would be the last human
thing they felt as they swung off to begin their struggles. Truth be
told, they sometimes felt something else of him pressing into their
backs as that instant approached. And if the noose didn't set
perfectly, he would be perched atop their shoulders, his feet
sensitive to every convulsive struggle. Ah, those old days were gone.
The cart was so, well, impersonal. But, he had to admit, very
efficient. No more having to coax the victim up a ladder; getting them
to accept the first step, the point where they left the ground for the
last time, was the hardest part. No more having to tow a reluctant one
up with the noose, one step at a time, with them gasping as the rope
choke-collar forced them to move up another step in order to breathe.
And, with multiple victims, it got worse with each one. The first
might go willingly, but after the second had waited for their agonies
to end, watching their struggles peak and then fade into shivering,
all too often seen their clothing wet with the anguish or smelled the
odor of their bowels, there would usually be a struggle to get them to
mount the ladder. After three or four such displays, the last in line
would be unable to stand and have to be lifted up. Now all could be
spun off together.

His daydreams vanished as he met the jailer. Together they went to
the cell of the two women, mother and daughter, who were the victims,
and entertainers, of the day. They had been caught clipping the
coinage, shaving bits of silver and gold from coins and melting them
down. It was the same as theft. In fact, not long ago, it would have
been treason, an attack on the value of the king's coinage, and drawn
death by fire. These days, it drew only the noose.

As the door opened, he and jailor heard the weeping; it was expected.
Few met their fate with complete resignation. At least there was no
hysteria. He'd faced one young lady who was competely out of control,
refused even to dress, screamed that it was not real. They'd had to
dress her by force, which was by no means easy with the elaborate
dress she wore, and then carry her out fighting. This pair was at
least under control.

At his request they crossed their hand in front. He bound one and the
jailor bound the other. He reflected upon how a hanging really went by
stages. It was not a continuous event, but one that had several
thresholds. This was the first; the victim accepted their fate and
allowed themselves to be bound. From there on, resistance would be
impossible. That was one good reason to do the binding at this point;
if they panicked at the sight of the gallows, they were already in no
position to fight. Some favored noosing them at this same point, but
he preferred to do that later. No sense reminding them so far in
advance of what their fate would be. With hands tied, there was no way
to stop the noose from going around their necks, anyway. The chin
could only lower so far.

The two continued to weep as he escorted them to the cart. They were
a bit reluctant to climb aboard, he could see. This was the second
threshold. Already restrained, the victim must take their last step on
earth and mount onto the cart from which they would soon be hung. He
and the jailor took each by their arms and lifted them aboard.

He took his place on the cart and snapped the reins; the horses
slowly drew it away from the jail, toward the gallows, on a hill a
half mile off. Behind him the women had taken seats on their coffins
and were continuing to weep. He could hear them commiserating with
each other, each trying to take the blame for the scheme which was
responsible for their dying today.

The crowd parted as the cart approached; the spectators grew silent
as they cast eyes on the victims whom they would soon see struggling
at rope's end. Once victim sobbed out a cry -- why had so many come
just to see two poor women die?

He halted the cart expertly under the gallows. There was a knack to
this, too. The cart was a two-wheeler, so that the front end was
higher than the back. Some hangmen liked to position the victims at
the front, high, end -- but this meant they had to be dragged the
entire length of the cart before their full weight tightened the
noose. Some liked to position them at the gate -- but a two-wheeler is
unstable, and rocks up and down as the hangman and clergyman move, so
that the victims were continually bobbing up and down, and choking on
the down stroke, which just increased the panic. He liked a
compromise, with them in the middle over the wheels, the one place
where the cart did not bob.

The clergyman climbed aboard, and he gestured him to the front of the
cart. He stood the two women up and made sure they faced the
clergyman, then took his own place behind them. They continued to cry
as the clergyman opened his book and looked up the prayers for the dying.

Another threshold: he put the noose, a simple slip-knot, around the
neck of the daughter. She lowered her chin in resistance to the
scratch of the rope. "Resistance is hopeless," he whispered, "you must
accept your fate with dignity, as a lady." She raised her chin and he
tightened it, barely enough to keep it in place. It was an esquisite
moment; her young skin was like ivory, setting off the rough rope to
perfection.

Above him his assistant had mounted the crossbeam and sat straddling
it. The hangman threw up the loose end of the rope, and the assistant
quickly tied it in place, with virtually no slack, so that the victim
could not move. The hangman turned to the mother. She was easier,
accepting the rope with chin held high, even as the tears rolled down
her cheeks. That, he reflected, showed some breeding.

The clergyman began slowly to read the services for the dying, and
the two women joined in. It took some minutes -- intentionally, so
that the victims could reflect upon their approaching fate and become
reconciled to it.

As the words "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" were slowly intoned, the
hangman slipped a hood over the daughter's head. Her hairdo was a bit
high, and it took a bit of fitting. She seemed to resist, although
with hands tied and noose taut she could hardly move without choking.
Finally it was in place, hiding her face down to her lips. He turned
to the mother and, again, she accepted with no resistance. It was the
one dignity allowed a victim, of having their eyes and face kept
private as they died. The cloth was thin enough to where they could
dimly see out, but it was enough to keep a minor amount of privacy. He
could speculate at a further effect; they were one step more sealed
off from the outside world, left there with lessened sensations,
perhaps more alert to the senses that remained.... the feeling of
their skin, the movement of the wind, the creak of the cart.

He hopped off the back of the cart and made his way to the horses.
The women's weeping rose in volume; they knew all preparations were
finished, and they were only seconds away from their final agony. He
grabbed the horses' reins and heard the younger scream, inhale, scream
helplessly again. Then he pulled the reins forward.

Cart horses are laboring beasts, not racers. They leaned forward and
set their shoulders against the collars; the cart rocked a bit as the
wheels lifted out of their ruts. The younger one screamed even more
loudly, and the mother uttered a moan.

Then the cart slowly rolled forward. Looking back, he could see the
daughter lose her balance and topple backward, feet still on the cart,
but being dragged. Her scream faded into a sort of cackling sound as
her windpipe slowly sealed off. The mother took a step backward, kept
on her feet. Then another step. Then another -- and one foot went off
the back of the cart and the noose snapped tight. The other foot hung
briefly on and sent her spinning as the cart pulled away. Now both
women were swaying back and forth, one slowly spinning, the other rapidly.

He stopped the cart and took a few steps back. It was obvious the
daughter was conscious and in a panic. Her feet kicked out in every
direction, trying to find some support. She even kicked at one of the
gallows posts, sending her body wobbling around, then kicked at it
again -- anything to take the appalling stress off her neck, anything
to find one more breath of air. Her feet flew about, kicking,
churning, then toes reaching desperately for the ground, then more
kicking. Her body wobbled in a wide circle, thrown about by her
struggles. Her hands grabbed at the noose -- again, hopelessly. Even
if they had been tied so that they faced her when raised, she could
not have loosened it. As it was, she could merely try to dig her
fingertips into it from underneath.

The mother, in contrast, simply spun. The only indication she was
alive was her arms, doubled so that her hands were on her chest, and a
slight twisting of her feet.

The daughter's kicking slowed; he did not know if she was going
unconscious, or if the lack of air had simply deprived her of the
ability to think about anything but her lack of air. Below her hood,
he could see the daughter's mouth contort. The noose had caught in the
one spot where the victim's jaw could still move. At the back of the
neck, it levered the head downward, clamping the mouth shut. Anywhere
near the front, the noose pushed the jaw upward. But at one place on
the side, just behind the jaw, it turned the head sideways and left
the jaw free.

The mother was simply gyrating, the daughter still wobbling around,
as both their chests began to heave. He could see the shoulders lift,
the belly push out, as they sought to inhale past the rope. It was of
course hopeless. A hundred pounds or more was clamping both their
windpipes. At first the heaves were slow, as if purposeful. Then they
accelerated, as if in desperation. Their hands were clenched in agony.

Their chests were not the only thing heaving now. Their legs began to
pump and twitch and arms began to snap up and down. The mother's legs
mostly thrashed, the feet snapping forward and back with increasing
speed as her body entered its greatest agonies. Urine sprinkled from
her shoes as her bladder released in her helpless anguish.

The daughter's legs did the same, but then snapped up so that her
knees were under her chin, and held there. The dress was lifted up,
affording the spectators some rare views. It was one of the reasons,
the hangman reflected, why hanging was so degrading a manner of
execution. One could retain some dignity while being beheaded or shot,
but none while dangling, and showing one's intimate regions while out
of control. A spray of urine underscored the point, as the daughter
also lost control.

The mother's thrashing ended when her back began to arch backward.
All her muscles were tightening, and those at the back of the body
overcame the weaker ones in front. Her body twisted until her feet
were level with her waist. She hung in that posture, chest heaving so
rapidly it seemed like violent shivering. He could actually hear the
rope hum. Her arms were drawn up, but the fingers were rapidly twisting.

Finally, the mother's body straightened out and hung limp. Her chest
heaved once, then again, then a third time. There was a sound of
flatulence -- indeed, hanging left the victim no dignity. The daughter
continued to struggle. Her legs came down from her chin, but they
still danced. Her bosom, now turning blue, continued to heave, within
women's garments designed so that even an ordinary breath made the
breasts heave and swell. Her violent and anguished heaving was far
more pronounced, displaying her soft and quivering assets in an
exceptionally attractive.....

The hangman had been aware of a familiar pressure in his breeches,
but was so absorbed in the sights that he had ignored where his own
body was going. The sight of the daughter, her half-exposed breasts
bouncing in anguish as she sought to pull in one more breath, was
simply too much. Suddenly he felt the sharp cramp of pleasure, felt
his already stiff manhood become fixed in place as his leg muscles
tightened, then the explosion inside his loins and the spasms of
pleasure. He staggered under the impact of it, tried not to allow any
signs of his climax to show. He felt the seed explode, warm and wet,
from his body.

He glanced around; everyone's eyes were fixed, almost as if
hypnotized, on the victims. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and
shoved it into the breeches. With any luck, no stain would show
through them to draw attention later.

The daughter's dance was ending. Her feet shivered a bit, and her
breasts heaved just a trifle. The feet stopped. Her mouth slowly fell
open, making her the very image of helplessness as she slowly rotated
on the rope which was taking her life, indeed dragging the last bits
of life from her anguished body.

After a few seconds, the breasts heaved again, and one foot shivered
for a few seconds. Then she was still, and the only sounds were the
creaking of the ropes as the two swayed back and forth, the only
movement a last drop of urine from the mother's shoe.

For the first time, the hangman knew this was NOT simply a job.

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