(Santa Victoria, Brazil) A shocking series of events have occurred in the southern Brazilian state of Rio Grande do Sul, a relatively calm pampa between the calmer and calmest pampas in the tri-nation area. An American cyclist, who remains unidentified but is believed to have connections to a mystic nomadic cult that goes by the acroynm MB&S, has been the victim of exaggerated and repeated acts of disturbing generosity.
Miscommunication between law enforcement agencies and the local polices’ unfamiliarity with Facebook meant these selfless exploits went largely uninvestigated, though Brazilian Mariana Nunes, resident of Porto Alegre, has been identified as the puppetmaster of the charitible ring that sent shockwaves of benevolence across Lagoa dos Patos, down the BR-116, all the way to the wind-chilled town of Santa Vitoria, the scene of the most recent and equally chilling act of hospitality.
Ms. Nunes, on the evening of March 14th, snared the unsuspecting cyclist with an invitation to “drink a chimarron” through the online social network Couchsurfing.org. After visiting tourist sites and laughing through Porto Alegre’s historic center, the promised caffeinated tea leaf drink was replaced with promises of future cafeinated tea leaf drinks in the city of Camaquã, where Ms. Nunes’ parents would, acording to sources, be waiting for the silly-Portuguese-accented traveler with boiled water and an oversized mate gourd.
“Delayed gratification combined with exotic local customs is a common entrapment technique among bleeding-hearts like Ms. Nunes,” states the official police report, still a work in progress at only 1.5 pages. “International travelers are predictable in their desires to have authentic experiences. Long-distance cyclists are especially vulnerable.”
The American cyclist arrived to Camaquã several days later, and though the chimarron remained aloof during his stay, strange sounds emitted from the breeze doors of the Nunes family home. “Coffee percolation, softly murmured conversation, the rumbling of an electric shower, and the fine China clanking of a buffet-style dinner—it was horrible,” relays a neighbor who could barely recount the philantrophy without cupping her face dramatically in her hands. “I locked my doors and turned up the TV to block out the sounds of charitableness.”
In the city of Pelotas, 276 kilometers south of Camaquã, the American cyclist, completely unaware of the altruistic vortex into which he had been lead, became more deeply entangled in long branches of Ms. Nune’s extended family tree, particularly in those of The Silveira Family. Third helpings during family meals, constant beer and lemonade refills, invites to social outings with abnormally attractive girls, bike rides to the beach, a birthday party at the farm, a city tour with handshake introductions, and everything short of cheek pinching made the American cyclist utterly defenseless against the onslaught of kindness.
Though The Silveira Family’s motives are unknown, police believe this insistence to welcome the oversized-by-local-standards foreigner into their home had something to due with the fact that, according to a complicit uncle brought in for questioning, “We’re proud to receive an authentic American into our home, a real, blond, authentic American cowboy!” This same uncle, allegedly, drilled the skinnier-than-he-appears-in-photos cyclist with inquiries about the truthfulness of Wild West films in order to distract from the fact he had yet to pass the piping hot chimarron.
Law enforcement agencies, divided between regional soccer teams and unable create a contingent of unified support, all agree that the American cyclist was lucky to escape from such a noble and sympathic people. “Others, like that German dude that arrived and just kinda stayed, were not so fortunate,” said the police chief and Grêmio fan to no one in particular.
On April 5th, nearly one month after Ms. Nunes launched her cyber attack, the American cyclist was last seen in Santa Vitoria accompanied by a distant and mostly ignored Silveira Family great-aunt, age 70. In a last ditch effort to shower the goofier-than-native-folks outsider with a distant spray of affectionate goodness, phone calls were made by the Pelotas clan to the Vitoria tribe, pleasantries were briefly exchanged, and the American cyclist, after a 160km (100 miles) pedal, arrived to a dinner of rice with chicken, canned beets, pickled quail eggs, baked pumpkin gulash, and a fresh peach souffle before retiring to a son’s former bedroom that is occupied “just once a year because he’s too busy to visit.”
The current whereabouts of the lop-sided-smiler American cyclist are unknown, though speculations abound as to whether he crossed into Uruguay to evade the unbareable overload of compassion, or simply disintegrated into the thin pampa air without a trace, a popular theory among local detectives, especially on Grêmio Vs. Pelotas game days.
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