If I only hadn't been standing in front of Newark prison before a hanging, in 1862, my whole life would have been different. As it was, the assistant executioner turned up drunk and was fired. That left an opening, and I was invited to fill it. Thus was I set on the path to become one of the many state executioners, added to the list, and paid three guineas an execution as an assistant. ten pounds as the primary hangman. It seemed easy money at the time. As long as you had a strong stomach, and were cynical about the sanctity of human life, it wasn't a disagreeable profession. What you didn't anticipate was the effect your profession had on your loved ones, the evil it would create, the consequences you would carry for the rest of your life.
Too ashamed to reveal my real name, I adopted that of Jack Ketch, a notorious hangman from a previous generation. His name carried enough opprobrium to allow my misdeeds to be lost in the morass of his. I would hope so anyway, for the sake of my everlasting soul.