Going Postal

arrived and said, “Good morning, Mr. Spangler.” He raised the hood helpfully. “It’s me, sir, Daniel ‘One Drop’ Trooper. I am your executioner for today, sir. Don’t you worry, sir. I’ve hanged dozens of people. We’ll soon have you out of here.”
    “Is it true that if a man isn’t hanged after three attempts he’s reprieved, Dan?” said Moist, as the executioner carefully wiped his hands on a rag.
    “So I’ve heard, sir, so I’ve heard. But they don’t call me ‘One Drop’ for nothing, sir. And will sir be having the black bag today?”
    “Will it help?”
    “Some people think it makes them look more dashing, sir. And it stops that pop-eyed look. It’s more a crowd thing, really. Quite a big one out there this morning. Nice piece about you in the Times yesterday, I thought. All them people saying what a nice young man you were, and everything. Er…would you mind signing the rope beforehand, sir? I mean, I won’t have a chance to ask you afterwards, eh?”
    “ Signing the rope ?” said Moist.
    “Yessir,” said the hangman. “It’s sort of traditional. There’s a lot of people out there who buy old rope. Specialist collectors, you could say. A bit strange, but it takes all sorts, eh? Worth more signed, of course.” He flourished a length of stout rope. “I’ve got a special pen that signs on rope. One signature every couple of inches? Straightforward signature, no dedication needed. Worth money to me, sir. I’d be very grateful.”
    “So grateful that you won’t hang me, then?” said Moist, taking the pen.
    This got an appreciative laugh. Mr. Trooper watched him sign along the length, nodding happily.
    “Well done, sir, that’s my pension plan you’re signing there. Now…are we ready, everyone?”
    “Not me!” said Moist quickly, to another round of general amusement.
    “You’re a card, Mr. Spangler,” said Mr. Wilkinson. “It won’t be the same without you around, and that’s the truth.”
    “Not for me, at any rate,” said Moist. This was, once again, treated like rapier wit. Moist sighed.
    “Do you really think all this deters crime, Mr. Trooper?” he said.
    “Well, in the generality of things I’d say it’s hard to tell, given that it’s hard to find evidence of crimes not committed,” said the hangman, giving the trapdoor a final rattle. “But in the specificality , sir, I’d say it’s very efficacious.”
    “Meaning what?” said Moist.
    “Meaning I’ve never seen someone up here more’n once, sir. Shall we go?”
    There was a stir when they climbed up into the chilly morning air, followed by a few boos and even some applause. People were strange like that. Steal five dollars and you were a petty thief. Steal thousands of dollars and you were either a government or a hero.
    Moist stared ahead while the roll call of his crimes was read out. He couldn’t help feeling that it was so unfair . He’d never so much as tapped someone on the head. He’d never even broken down a door. He had picked locks on occasion, but he’d always locked them again behind him. Apart from all those repossessions, bankruptcies, and sudden insolvencies, what had he actually done that was bad , as such? He’d only been moving numbers around.
    “Nice crowd turned out today,” said Mr. Trooper, tossing the end of the rope over the beam and busying himself with knots. “Lot of press, too. What Gallows? covers ’em all, o’course, and there’s the Times and the Pseudopolis Herald , prob’ly because of that bank what collapsed there, and I heard there’s a man from the Sto Plains Dealer , too. Very good financial section, I always keep an eye on used-rope prices. Looks like a lot of people want to see you dead, sir.”
    Moist was aware that a black coach had drawn up at the rear of the crowd. There was no coat of arms on the door, unless you were in on the secret, which was that Lord Vetinari’s coat of arms featured a sable shield. Black on black. You had to admit, the bastard had style—
    “Huh? What?” he said, in response to a nudge.
    “I asked if you have any last words, Mr. Spangler?” said the hangman. “It’s customary. I wonder if you might have thought of any?”
    “I wasn’t actually expecting to die,” said Moist. And that was it. He really hadn’t, until now. He’d been certain that something would turn up.
    “Good one, sir,” said Mr. Wilkinson. “We’ll go with that, shall we?”
    Moist narrowed his eyes. The curtain on a coach