Constantine XI Palaiologos had always loved Greek Eastern Thrace with its brave, bewildered buildings. It was a place where he felt inspired.
He was a noble, warmongering, wine drinker with hairy feet and tall fingers. His friends saw him as a brave, bewildered Basileus. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for a panicky Morea. That's the sort of man he was.
Constantine XI walked over to the window and reflected on his Roman surroundings. The sunshine teased like fighting horses.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Mehmed II. Mehmed was an evil Turk with short feet and skinny fingers.
Constantine XI gulped. He was not prepared for Mehmed.
As Constantine XI stepped outside and Mehmed came closer, he could see the flipping smile on his face.
Mehmed glared with all the wrath of 1888 brave tasty turkeys. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want the city of Constantinople."
Constantine XI looked back, even more Byzantine and still fingering the capital sword. "Mehmed, oh crap l left the Kerkoporta unlocked," he replied.
They looked at each other with wondrous feelings, like two empty, eager eagles trampling at a very dishonorable The Siege of Constantinople, which had Orthodox Chanting music playing in the background and two just uncles sieging to the beat.
Suddenly, Mehmed lunged forward and tried to punch Constantine XI in the face. Quickly, Constantine XI grabbed the capital sword and brought it down on Mehmed's skull.
Mehmed's short feet trembled and his skinny fingers wobbled. He looked civilized, his emotions raw like a funkelplopping, flipping flag.
Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Mehmed II was dead.
Constantine XI Palaiologos went back inside and made himself a nice glass of wine.