In the heart of Mexico City's business district, in a showroom, a thin, redheaded man reclined on an adapted operating table. He was attired in rich oriental costume. Both his feet and one hand were nailed to blocks of wood, with long golden nails. He had been in that position for 488 hours and 45 minutes.
El Fakir was the most exciting thing seen in Mexico since a poor farmer's field at Paracutin split wide open and disgorged a little volcano. A lively row had sprung up between two powerful newspapers, El Universal and Novedades, over whether El Fakir's crucifixion was sacrilege....
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