The tourist was screaming, “Κill me so I suffer no more” in the middle of the agora.
Morning was early; the poor souls in the nearby flats woke from the flashing lights, the noise. The tourist, early forties with a goatee, had a stake that seemed to come out his shoulder, while others were emptying buckets of blood on the ancient columns around him.
“Won’t one of you shoot me?” he begged while paparazzi drones were live-streaming the scene and a young woman was tossing coal to the flames.
“Get ready for the fire, Mr. Hendrick,” she said, chewing gum. “The Ottomans will roast you alive.”
In the cafeteria up the hill and opposite the scene, an old couple slammed their backgammon pieces on the wooden board between sips of bitter Greek coffee.
“Fucking pain tourists,” said the grandpa.
“This is no simple tourist,” said the grandma. “He’s an American. He’s going for level three of the Ottoman Impaling Experience—look, they’re going to roast him alive.”
The old man grumbled in gibberish, and they played without another word.
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