The old hangman loved his gallows. He loved walking the stairs in the early sunlight and resting his calloused hand on the lever. He called the lever "Eric," which made people think he was gay. But he was not gay, he just named the lever after his penis. "Why name your penis Eric if you are not gay?" the townspeople would say. "Because I once knew a man named Eric who had a great penis'" he would say. "But, how would you even know that?" they would say. "Don't worry about it, I just know," he would say. "Listen, we don't even care if you're gay, in fact we would applaud you for coming out. Just tell us!" "Not gay," he would mumble, continuing his knitting work on a new hood. "Ok, let's just start over," the townspeople would take a collective deep breath, "So being gay is great isn't it, huh?" But the old man was no longer listening. From his vantage point atop the gallows he could survey the town as a whole, both with its good penises and bad. A rooster could be heard in the distance sparking his mind to wander to simpler times when, as a child he used to wring their necks. He wished he had never known of Eric or his penis. Furthermore he wished he had never named the lever Eric. He really wasn't gay, but now it seemed like he was being down on gays if he made a big deal about it either way.
Each evening the moonlight would shine down on the old gallows just outside his bedroom window, “Night gallows,” he'd whisper before rolling over. Beside him sat a tiny gallows he had whittled. "Eric" was a matchstick, which looked like a penis.