Elon Mouse’s bodyguard unit pulsed with pre-concert energy in the tunnel outside Burrow HQ. Picture forty to fifty muscle-bound ex-special-forces lads comparing tactical glow-stick holsters and submachine guns while debating which Taylor Swift era requires the most perimeter coverage.

At the center of the commotion stood Elon’s neuro-company administrator—his private love interest and the mother of his young son, Carl. She adjusted her glitter-rimmed glasses and waved a fresh stack of VIP badges. “We’re cleared for a suite, boys,” she announced, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face as the guards cheered.

Beside her, Priscilla—Mark ZuckerHamster’s wife—handed out friendship bracelets, tossing a wink at Mark.

Rumor had it that controversial influencer Andrew Tate once applied to join Elon’s bodyguard team. He boasted kickboxing trophies and a résumé filled with “alpha” jargon, but Elon reportedly scrawled one line across the application: “Poor morals.” Still, the current crew’s high-fade haircuts, mirrored shades, and steady supply of testosterone—courtesy of Elon’s recent acquisition of the online healthcare company Hims—suggested Tate might’ve fit right in.

Mark rolled up on a neon-lit limo-Roomba, munching a lightning-bolt energy bar. “Crew, remember: tonight will be magical,” he declared, scanning their custom tees—PROTECT THE MOUSE, SHAKE IT OFF—and twitching a whisker. “Nice shirts, gentlemen!”

Panda Wise distributed hearing protection. “泰勒·斯威夫特的低音很震撼,” he warned—“Taylor’s bass hits hard.” The guards nodded.

Elon zipped his bomber jacket. “Operational directive: enjoy the show, avoid tabloid drama, and no bootlegging Taylor’s songs on body cams.” Elon's neuro-company administrator slipped her arm through his; Priscilla high-fived Mark.

With VIP badges flashing and glow sticks at the ready, they marched toward the stadium lights—security detail on the outside, Swiftie hearts on the inside.