Taylor Swift's tour in Czech Republic

Tak pojď na férovku sračko!!
Tram operator shouting on Swiftie
This fiasco began when Taylor Swift finally arrived in the Czech Republic, but it ended in disaster due to the sheer stupidity of Swifties and their inability to grasp that Czech infrastructure operates on the principles of quantum physics and pure frustration.
== Background ==
The Czech Republic—just a tiny shit-stained speck on the map of Europe, reeking of mediocrity, clinging to the delusion of importance because it gave the world the polarograph, contact lenses, Merkur construction sets, nylon, Semtex, the remoska, the ship propeller, the Škoda Octavia, Ferdinand Porsche, and Sigmund Freud. But in reality? No one gives a fuck. To the East, it's a land of cowards and femboys. To the West, it's just a bunch of communists and wannabe Eastern Europeans. And even though it geographically sits in Central Europe, it's stuck in some bizarre interdimensional void where everything is half-assed—half wealth, half poverty, half democracy, half chaos.
And now, this festering middle-of-nowhere just faced its biggest crisis since the breakup of Czechoslovakia: Taylor Swift announced concerts in the Czech Republic.
Yes, the overdramatic pop Barbie herself, who manages to fill stadiums worldwide with lyrics straight out of a fifteen-year-old girl’s diary, decided to grace this land—a place where, just a few years ago, she’d have been lucky to open for Kabát in the O2 Arena. And worse? It wasn’t just Prague. No, this fever dream extended to Brno and Plzeň too. Why? Who the hell knows. Maybe her manager’s hand slipped on the keyboard. Maybe it was some twisted social experiment. Maybe nobody even bothered to check the map properly. Either way, Czech Swifties—shockingly numerous but intellectually concerning—had their moment. The same people who used to cry about having to travel to Vienna, Berlin, or Warsaw for her concerts were now drowning in a sea of glitter and delusional euphoria.
But as always, when something seems too good to be true, it’s because disaster is just around the corner.
See, the Czech Republic has one fatal flaw: it is absolutely unfit to handle Taylor Swift. A stadium for 80,000 people? Doesn’t exist. Infrastructure capable of handling tens of thousands of hysterical teenage girls and their clueless parents? Forget it. A ticketing system that wouldn’t immediately crash harder than the economy in the '90s? Not a fucking chance.
So the second ticket sales opened, the inevitable happened—a total and utter collapse. Czech Ticketmaster burned faster than dry paper in a bonfire. Servers dropped dead quicker than the national hockey team in a quarterfinal. And within two minutes, the entire fandom plunged into a hysteria unseen since the Habsburgs lost at Kolín. Prague sold out in three seconds. Brno in five. Plzeň? The system collapsed so spectacularly it nearly took down beer production with it.
Panic spread like wildfire. Forums flooded with death threats to Ticketmaster. Czech Twitter imploded under a tidal wave of sob stories. Instagram stories became a wasteland of selfies captioned "Life is pain" with broken heart emojis. TikTok? An endless feed of teenage girls ugly-crying in bed, while All Too Well (10 Minute Version) played in the background.
And just when it seemed like things couldn’t get worse, the second wave of carnage hit: scalpers.
Tickets, originally costing a few thousand crowns, immediately surfaced on resale sites for amounts that could get you a studio apartment in Chomutov. 25,000 CZK? Cheap. 50,000 CZK? Standard. 100,000 CZK? Now we’re talking. And the worst part? Fans paid it. Because Czech Swifties—marginally smarter than their American counterparts (not a high bar, considering U.S. Swifties have the mental capacity of oversized toddlers)—still share one fatal flaw: absolute financial illiteracy. The result? Half the tickets ended up in the hands of people who couldn’t name a single song past Blank Space, while the other half of the fandom was selling their kidneys just to stand in a crumbling stadium that might not survive the concert.
And that’s when reality hit—the realization that, no matter how much glitter and screaming you throw at it, the Czech Republic will always be what it has always been: a half-functional, existential mistake of a country, now facing the catastrophic aftermath of allowing Swifties anywhere near it.
== Prelude ==
In 2026, Taylor Swift announced her European tour. For some inexplicable reason, she had initially skipped the Czech Republic—only to later reveal that she would, in fact, be making a few stops there. Plzeň, at the football stadium. Prague, at Eden. And Brno… on the goddamn town square, right next to that grotesque excuse for an astronomical clock. It was supposed to be monumental. Swifties were ecstatic. The Czech ones, because they wouldn’t have to sell their souls to afford plane tickets abroad. The foreign ones, because they’d get to see Taylor again—this time in the land of Pilsner Urquell, Budweiser, and, of course, Prague, the one Czech city people outside of Central Europe have actually heard of.
The infrastructure tried to prepare. It failed. Spectacularly.
The crown jewels of the nation’s rail and bus transport—already running on duct tape, prayer, and the remnants of communist-era engineering—stood no chance against the tsunami of fangirls heading for the concerts. České dráhy (Czech Railways), ever the brave yet hopeless optimists, put together special express trains for TS fans (Ex “Taylor Swift”), along with reinforcement services meant to support regular connections. A noble effort, though ultimately meaningless, given that ČD’s average delay is approximately seven fucking years. Arriva and GW Train Regio followed suit, because why not.
Bus companies, sensing the apocalypse approaching, went full doomsday mode and resurrected decommissioned buses from retirement, fearing that their active fleet wouldn’t survive the onslaught of rabid Swifties. Meanwhile, foreign fans—particularly clueless Americans—rented cars from Prague’s Hertz and Avis, desperate to cling to some illusion of familiarity, as if driving a Škoda on crumbling Czech highways would somehow make them feel “at home.”
And then it happened.
The days that followed would go down as the greatest transportation disaster in Central European history.
== PlzeňPilsen for Ami's ==
Taylor Swift’s private Dassault Falcon landed at Líně Airfield near Plzeň at exactly 6:07 AM. The Czech military, perpetually paranoid and still operating on Soviet-era instincts, immediately classified her arrival as a national security threat. Without hesitation, soldiers detained Taylor and her entire entourage.
After several hours of confused negotiations, during which Czech officials frantically Googled "Who the fuck is Taylor Swift?" she was finally released. To ensure her safety, the military assigned an armored convoy to escort her to the FC Viktoria Plzeň stadium. But this was the Czech Republic. Nothing was ever safe.
For days, Plzeň had been overrun by tens of thousands of Swifties, mostly from Germany and France, who arrived via the EuroCity train "Bavorský expres." Naturally, the train was a week late. As they flooded into the city, the Swifties were immediately confronted with two uniquely Czech problems: nobody gives a shit about customer service, and the public transport system is designed as a bureaucratic endurance test. Lost in a maze of intentionally confusing train station signs, foreign Swifties quickly fell into a state of panic. Locals, fully capable of speaking English but fundamentally opposed to doing so, simply laughed in their faces. Swifties, unused to any form of inconvenience, began breaking down en masse. Some, overwhelmed by the sheer hostility of the Czech people, jumped under passing trams, buses, or random cars. Their first and last interaction with the Czech Republic was becoming a traffic fatality.
Then, the convoy stopped moving. That was the beginning of the end.
A group of French Swifties, veterans of Parisian riots, spotted Taylor inside a military truck. Without hesitation, they launched an all-out assault on the convoy. A hailstorm of Swiftie merch, Starbucks mugs, overpriced sneakers, Gucci sunglasses, and train station souvenirs rained down upon the vehicles. Taylor and Travis laughed. The soldiers did not. At that moment, the engine of Taylor’s military Praga V3S revved. A massive, toxic black cloud of unfiltered diesel exhaust erupted from the truck’s exhaust pipe, engulfing the attacking Swifties. The reaction was instant. Choking on fumes they were never meant to inhale, the girls screamed in terror, breaking down into uncontrollable sobs. Panicking, they stumbled blindly into the street, where many were flattened by oncoming traffic, including the city's trolleybus line 22, whose driver was already three beers deep into his shift.
Within minutes, Plzeň had collapsed into anarchy.
Still shaken from years of Soviet occupation, the people of Plzeň reacted to the Swiftie invasion the only way they knew how: with extreme, unfiltered violence. Angry Czech drivers, furious that they couldn’t get to work, the pub, or anywhere that actually mattered, began ramming their cars into crowds of Swifties. One Swiftie accidentally kicked a parked Opel Vectra (a terrible car, by the way). The driver immediately exited the vehicle and started beating the shit out of her. Within seconds, a full-blown lynch mob had formed.
Meanwhile, on the D5 highway between Prague and Plzeň, things got even worse. American Swifties, used to wide, multi-lane highways, failed to comprehend that a Czech two-lane road is not an American interstate. A Mercedes A180 from Avis, driven by a panicked Swiftie, completely misjudged an improvised detour. She accidentally launched the car off an unmarked construction ramp, soaring 60 meters through the air before obliterating an entire traffic column. One hundred fifty-four vehicles were destroyed. The highway was shut down for a week.
The collapse of the railway system was not a question of if, but when. The world had endured wars, plagues, nuclear crises—but nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared it for the uncontrolled horror that descended upon the tracks in a hurricane of pink glitter, self-obsession, and an intelligence quotient that barely rivaled that of an especially dim-witted garden snail.
It all began with the derailment of the express train No. 750 "Berounka" near Kařez. A mob of feral Swifties, their brains addled by years of TikTok brain rot and unshakable belief in the divine superiority of their idol, Taylor Swift, deemed the train "unworthy" of existing in the same reality as their goddess. The solution? Flip the entire train over with their bare hands, much like cavemen discovering the concept of leverage for the first time. The wreckage was left to burn while the Swifties screeched in unison, praising Taylor's name as if their collective IQs might somehow combine into something resembling sentience.
Meanwhile, Express 189 "Taylor Swift," sent from Brno through Děčín to Munich as auxiliary train especially for Swifties, became a rolling nightmare. The train consisted of B249 passenger cars, produced in VEB Waggonbau Bautzen between 1969 and 1985—vehicles that had been excavated from the railway graveyards of Česká Třebová, hastily refurbished, and put back into service without anyone bothering to fix the stench of rot, mold-infested upholstery, or the vintage East German vinyl seats that had absorbed the suffering of generations past. Naturally, there was no Wi-Fi, no air conditioning, and the toilets had long since ceased to function.
For the Swifties, raised on Starbucks, Uber, and the belief that public transport was something only poor people used, this was a fate worse than death. Their response was immediate: throwing regular passengers out of the windows. Elderly commuters, unsuspecting tourists, even children—all hurled into the darkness, their seats claimed by the shrieking horde. They were arriving to Česká Lípa, Northern county capital city, which is a shithole.
Unfortunately for the Swifties, Česká Lípa remained Česká Lípa. The local population, hardened by years of exposure to both Arriva and Die Länderbahn’s incompetence, was not about to tolerate this level of stupidity on their home turf. Armed with bricks, railway tools, and a deeply ingrained hatred of outsiders, the locals, alongside conductors from nearby regional lines, stormed the train. One locomotive was set on fire. A Swiftie took an axe to the skull. Chaos erupted, yet the train—now partially ablaze—somehow continued its journey.
Inside the infernal carriages, the nightmare only deepened. The Swifties, no longer in the artificial comfort of their online echo chambers, began succumbing to the horrifying reality of the real world. Some fainted en masse. Others developed unexplained rashes. The most delicate among them—especially those flown in from the safety of suburban America—suddenly exhibited symptoms of scabies and herpes, despite no apparent means of transmission. Panic ensued. Some resorted to desperate, primal coping mechanisms: mass suicide, mindless orgies, and ritualistic sacrifices in the name of Taylor Swift. A few attempted to eat their own concert tickets, believing them to contain some sort of divine sustenance.
Seven agonizing hours passed in a rolling biohazard of human waste, screeching, and social media withdrawal. The Swifties, no longer in denial, began to comprehend the true reality of European railway travel—an experience best described as 1985, but forever. No internet. No phone signal. No UberEats. No basic survival instincts.
By the time the train rolled into Plzeň, another challenge arose. The B-series cars were equipped with manually operated folding doors—opened by turning a handle. A mechanism so simple that a Czech preschooler could master it in ten seconds. But for the Swifties? An impenetrable fortress.
For a solid forty-five minutes, they fought the doors like a group of concussed monkeys attacking a vending machine. They pushed, pulled, screamed, filmed their struggle on their dead iPhones, waiting for the doors to open themselves like those in a shopping mall. Only when a young railway dispatcher, barely suppressing his contempt, stepped in and effortlessly opened the doors in two seconds did they finally escape their self-imposed prison. The Swifties collapsed onto the platform in exhaustion.
But there was a cost. The dispatcher, despite his immense disgust for their existence, was not blind. Swifties, for all their horrifying stupidity, were often physically attractive (even if their dead eyes and soulless expressions betrayed the complete absence of intelligent thought). And so, with the smug pragmatism of a man who knew how the world worked, he made his request: a blowjob in exchange for his assistance.
The Floridian Swifties, confused and disoriented, had to have his words translated. Upon understanding, they vehemently refused. But when they saw the ČD conductors in the background, tying up another group of Swifties an putting them in front of a local train, realization set in. With reluctant resignation, one by one, they fulfilled their end of the bargain. The dispatcher, in return, gave them the only good advice they had received in their short, meaningless lives: to flee. By accident, he had saved them.
Inside the stadium, Swifties, physically broken and mentally destroyed, gathered for what should have been the greatest night of their lives. Outside, angry Czech locals gathered to protest, chanting: "Cancel this and make it a beer festival!" and "This stadium is for KabátVery popular Czech rock band across all ages, not Taylor Swift!" Exhausted, traumatized, and completely out of fucks to give, the Swifties decided to go out with a bang. They created the biggest moshpit in Czech history. Two hundred fifty people were trampled to death.
At Plzeň’s main train station, homeless people and train conductors teamed up to hunt ticketless Swifties, tying them to the tracks as Czech Railways employees cheered in approval. Above the city, a stolen Czech Army MIL Mi-8 helicopter circled the stadium, dragging behind it a massive banner reading: "Plzeň hates you."
As the concert ended, Taylor stood on stage, microphone in hand. Looking out over the wreckage, the destroyed city, and the thousands of Swifties who had survived what was now known as the Bloodbath of Plzeň, she took a deep breath and whispered:
"I have never seen a place like this before."
The Plzeň crowd, in perfect unison, replied:
"Go fuck yourself."
== Prague ==
After the Plzeň concert, Prague was next. The Swifties swarmed the city like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Taylor Swift and her team landed safely at Klement Gottwald Airport, escorted by a government convoy to Eden Stadium. Everything seemed under control. But nothing could prepare Prague for what was coming.
Then came the SlaviaOne of the oldest and most known Football teams in Czech Republic. Eden is their stadium hooligans.
The moment they spotted the convoy of black Mercedes and BMWs with diplomatic plates, they knew.
"The fucking Americans are here!" First, the smoke bombs. Then, the two-liter bottles of Bráník beer. Then, entire crates of alcohol rained down upon the convoy. Swifties panicked, screeching like tortured livestock, their high-pitched wails only drawing more bloodthirsty locals. One Swiftie attempted to film a TikTok, sobbing about "being attacked by foreign fascists." Before she could finish, a beer bottle collided with her skull, sending her into a full-blown epileptic seizure. A bodyguard from Taylor’s entourage stepped out, attempting to calm the situation. He lasted five seconds before disappearing beneath an avalanche of thrown sausages, stadium chairs, and urine-filled cups. The convoy gunned it.
Meanwhile, Czech Railways was collapsing under the sheer weight of the Plzeň survivors. Trains were crammed far beyond capacity, doors forced open mid-journey as hundreds of Swifties clung to the sides like suicidal cockroaches. Several simply let go, plummeting onto the tracks, their remains pulverized into pink mist by passing locomotives. The Klatovy–Prague expresshttps://www.vagonweb.cz/razeni/vlak.php?zeme=%C4%8CD&kategorie=R&cislo=757&nazev=Berounka&rok=2025 train exploded near Karlštejn when a group of Swifties decided to squeeze themselves into the engine compartment, causing a catastrophic meltdown. The locomotive veered off-course, derailed, and obliterated eighty Swifties in an instant.
At Prague’s Main Train Station, things only got worse.
Swifties fought each other like rabid animals for seats, their sheer mass ripping train doors from their hinges. Windows shattered as desperate fans attempted to climb through, only to get trampled by the next wave of hysteria. One Swiftie managed to crawl onto the roof of a departing train, only to grab the high-voltage cables for balance. She ignited like a human firework, screaming for a solid two seconds before detonating in a rain of charred flesh.
Two American girls, lost on Platform 7, made the mistake of stepping onto the wrong train. The moment they disembarked, a duo of local thieves descended on them like vultures, stripping them of everything in seconds. The girls, now completely naked and sobbing, begged for help. A station conductor grabbed them by their hair, dragged them outside, and flung them onto the streets of Žižkov. No one ever saw them again.
In Střížkov, a squad of British Swifties hijacked a coach bus from Střížkov to Nový Bor. The driver took a brutal punch to the jaw. Within seconds, the Brits had seized control of the vehicle, screaming "WE RULE THE ROADS NOW, BITCHES!" as they sped toward Uhříněves. Fate had other plans.At a railway crossing, the warning gates began to lower. The Brit at the wheel didn’t care. They plowed forward at full speed—right as a high-speed České Budějovice express train tore across the tracks. The collision was biblical. The bus was obliterated on impact. Debris scattered over a one-kilometer radius. Of the twenty British Swifties on board, only a fine, bloodstained mist and a few handbag straps remained.
By now, Prague’s transit system was eating itself alive.
Swifties overloaded buses so severely that they burst into flames. The Prague Transit Authority scrambled to deploy their oldest Karosa B731https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karosa_B_731s and Citybuseshttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irisbus_Agora—ancient machines never meant to handle this level of pure, suicidal stupidity. They imploded one by one. One Karosa simply exploded when 200 Swifties forced their way inside simultaneously. The driver barely managed to jump out before the pressure wave incinerated everyone inside.
Tram operators began fighting back.
A tram driver on line 22 had enough when a twerking American busted through the drywall partition into his cabin. He turned around, grabbed her by the neck, and pinned her against the windshield, choking the life out of her before shoving her limp body onto the rails. The George Floyd maneuver was officially in play. Meanwhile, on the streets, hell reigned. Rental cars crashed in such overwhelming numbers that the entire Prague Ring Road became a wreckage graveyard. The airport shut down indefinitely—runways were gridlocked with abandoned American Airlines, United, and Delta flights waiting for passengers who would never return. 
At some point, the people of Prague decided they had enough. Enough screeching. Enough mindless hysteria. Enough hordes of lobotomized, Starbucks-fueled zombies shrieking "Taylor saved my life!!!" while being unable to read a basic train schedule. And so, in a moment of pure, unfiltered survival instinct, the citizens of Prague turned to the one thing that had never failed them in times of crisis: overwhelming, brutal, and indiscriminate force.
They gathered in secret, passing whispered messages in pubs and tram stops. A plan was formed. It wasn’t just about defending their city—it was about eradicating the problem. The target was Tank Museum in Lešany. And so they came, in the dead of night, storming the museum grounds like modern-day Hussites. Every functional tank, every operational vehicle—commandeered. LT vz. 35. T-55. A Merkava, because, inexplicably, Lešany had a working Merkava. None of it mattered. The machines of war roared to life, fueled by righteous fury and a deeply ingrained Czech intolerance for foreign nonsense. The hunt had begun. Dawn broke, and Prague was transformed into a battlefield. The tanks rolled through the streets, crushing anything that wasn’t smart enough to get out of the way. Shattered iPhones littered the asphalt. Blood and pink merchandise smeared the cobblestones. Any Swiftie too slow, too stupid, or too hysterical to hide was simply flattened under tons of steel. Those who fainted out of fear—expecting someone to catch them like in their melodramatic TikTok fantasies—were instead promptly dispatched on the spot. Hysterical American Swifties were priority targets. They were the loudest. The most obnoxious. The most insufferable. And so the people of Prague dealt with them the old-fashioned way—by throwing them off bridges. No ceremony. No speeches. No second chances. Just the satisfying splash of bodies hitting the cold waters of the Vltava. The river would take care of the rest.And yet, the tanks were not alone in this purge. No, the true warriors of the battle came not in armored vehicles, but in something far more insidious.
The elderly of Prague, the battle-hardened pensioners who had survived everything from Soviet occupation to privatization schemes, banded together in their ultimate act of defiance. They unleashed their Trabants and Wartburgs upon the enemy. For the uninitiated, these were not just old cars. These were two-stroke, smoke-belching, oil-burning, pollution-spewing monstrosities. Vehicles so primitive that refueling required mixing oil with gasoline by hand—resulting in thick, toxic blue smoke, a stench so foul that it could make a coal miner weep, and emissions levels that could make a modern EU bureaucrat suffer a heart attack. And so, without any real reason other than chaos, the pensioners of Prague drove through the screaming hordes, revving their engines, filling the streets with a choking, suffocating smog. The results were immediate. American Swifties dropped like flies. These were people who had never inhaled anything worse than overpriced vape fumes. They had never faced adversity stronger than a bad Yelp review. They had never, ever, built any form of resistance to anything even remotely uncomfortable. And now, they were drowning in a fog so thick it could barely be classified as breathable air. Their lungs failed. Their delicate constitutions shattered. Some collapsed where they stood. Others desperately tried to flee—only to be cut down by the tanks that followed. Their lifeless bodies were promptly gathered and thrown into the Vltava, where they would either float away or rot. No one cared which. The city was cleansing itself.
Despite everything, the concert was a success. Out of 300,000 Swifties, approximately 7,000 never left Prague. Some burned alive in buses. Some were flattened under tanks. Some were electrocuted on train tracks. Some were simply thrown into the Vltava and left to drown.
And some?
Some just vanished. 
== BrnoBrno is Basically Czech variant of OHIO ==
Taylor Swift slipped out of Prague at the break of dawn like a thief, weighed down by the trauma of a concert that went worse than the Czech national budget. With the remnants of her team, she fled to Brno-Tuřany Airport, blissfully unaware that another hell awaited her there. But Brno is a black hole—a place where no one knows what’s happening beyond their backyard, let alone the fact that Prague and Plzeň had just witnessed the greatest pop catastrophe of the decade. Swifties, who had dragged themselves to Brno by every means imaginable—EuroCity trains, rickety intercity services, or, in the case of the most desperate, the Arriva train where they were greeted by the stench of septic tanks and the looming presence of death—had no clue what was in store for them.
Arriving at Náměstí Svobody (Freedom Square) was relatively peaceful, at least until the tram appeared. The first wave of Swifties didn’t react fast enough—bones cracked under the wheels, blood splattered the cobblestones, and the mangled body of one teenage girl was dragged all the way to the next stop. The rest of the crowd got the message: this was war. Chaos was instant and absolute. The Swifties began radicalizing on the spot, ripping up cobblestones, flipping cars, and attacking unfortunate bystanders who made the mistake of crossing their path.
Meanwhile, the D1 motorway, that eternal monument to Czech engineering, transformed into a slaughterhouse. One American fan, who had rented a Škoda Octavia from Hertz, decided it was the perfect time to test if she could hit 200 km/h in traffic. She couldn’t. The truck she plowed into burst into flames, setting off a chain reaction involving 674 other vehicles whose drivers collectively decided that reflexes were overrated. Cars burned, people screamed, asphalt melted, and in the distance, the ghost of Semir GerkhanMain character from german franchise Alarm Für Kobra 11 chuckled coldly.
The railways fared no better. In Kolín, the Swifties overturned a local train bound for Ledečko, leaving dozens of passengers mangled and 12 Swifties grilled alive on the overhead wires. Those who survived their journey on the Arriva train had already wished for death long before they arrived, choking on the chemical stench of overflowing toilets. The Svitava express went up in flames like a witch at an inquisition, while the EC Metropolitan was derailed by a horde of dancing Swifties, sending the 800-ton train hurtling 100 meters off the tracks.
Brno’s main train station devolved into something between a war zone and a medieval slave market. Train conductors, knowing their final hours had come, guzzled shots of borovička and launched a counteroffensive. Some grabbed switches, held down particularly unruly Swifties, and whipped them in rhythm like human metronomes (bare butts only, of course). Others opted for the "shut her up with a gag and tie her to the tracks" method, testing whether the modern Moravia electric units could be stopped by piles of human flesh. Spoiler: they couldn’t.
Břeclav? There was nothing left to save. The Swifties stormed in like a flamethrower in an orphanage. The train station was obliterated, the RailjetVery priced train operated in cooperation between ČD and ÖBB reduced to its molecular components. A few stray fans somehow ended up in Kopřivnice, in Silesia, where they decided the Tatra Museum deserved a "swift touch." The employees weren’t having it—they quickly resorted to illegal chemical experiments. When the first Swifties started seeing Jesus Christ breakdancing on Tatras, it became clear their resistance had ended. The last stray German fan was crushed by an unsecured Tatra 87 (the same model Hanzelka and Zikmund used to travel the world), pinning her against a wall and at least giving her demise a certain aesthetic flair.
And back in Brno, Taylor finally dared to emerge from her hiding spot. Outside, the city lay in ruins—the streets looked like, well, Brno. The police escorted her to Náměstí Svobody, but just as she prepared to sing her first note, a dildo flew through the air. Perfect arc. It landed in her mouth. She spat it out, threw up, and readied herself to sing.
But this was Brno. And Brno demanded more.
Enter the students of Masaryk University—pro-Israel and pro-Palestine groups—who had apparently decided the square was the perfect battleground. They went at each other like monkeys in a cage. The bloody brawl raged alongside the concert, where by this point about 900 people had already died, though in the context of the evening, it hardly seemed to matter.
And then, out of nowhere—the final blow. From a side street, a Toyota Corolla screeched into view. The Hertz logo gleamed on its window. Behind the wheel: a deranged Swiftie. Her target? The city’s infamous black clock, a giant phallic symbol. Impact. Explosion. Swiftie body parts rained down like confetti.
== Aftermath ==
thumb|That thing isn't cheap....
The aftermath was apocalyptic. Prague lay in ruins, Plzeň was burning, and Brno? Well, Brno just kept trudging along as if nothing had happened. Trams ran on time, vendors still sold grotesquely oversized pickles at Zelňák market, and Brno’s residents sipped their beer in ignorance while the rest of the country descended into the worst unrest in its modern history. Meanwhile, in Prague, the gates of hell were only just creaking open.
Dead Swifties began bobbing to the surface of the Vltava River, lazily drifting between boats packed with horrified tourists trying to process what the actual fuck was happening. Some dialed the police, only to discover that law enforcement had long since collapsed under the weight of the chaos. Crowds gathered on the Charles Bridge, watching dozens—possibly hundreds—of bloated corpses snag on the bridge’s pillars while others slipped beneath the surface, swept downstream toward Mělník. Amid the carnage, opportunists emerged—pickpockets looted the lifeless bodies, scavengers stole sneakers and iPhones, and a few enterprising vendors set up stands selling "authentic Swiftie death merch."
Prague’s main train station, once the proud gateway to the city, now resembled a war zone. The building was partially burned out, escalators sat frozen mid-motion, lights flickered dimly, and the platforms were littered with mangled luggage, trampled protest signs, and unidentifiable chunks of meat. Trains were delayed by hours, but in truth, none of them were going anywhere. Some had been dismantled on the spot by deranged mobs; others had simply gone up in flames.
While Prague choked on its own pandemonium, Plzeň devolved into outright rebellion. The locals, still seething from the previous night’s disaster, armed themselves with whatever they could find—Pilsner bottles, rusty iron pipes, and in two notable cases, makeshift flamethrowers cobbled together from camping stoves. As hysteria peaked, rumors spread that remnants of Taylor Swift’s fanbase were still hiding in the city. The hunt began. Thousands of furious residents flooded Republic Square, demanding immediate independence for Plzeň and the deportation of all remaining Swifties. The police, overwhelmed and utterly incapable of restoring order, retreated and left the city to its fate.
Meanwhile, Brno remained blissfully detached. Life carried on as usual. Locals ignored the news of a collapsing republic and focused on what really mattered—arguing whether to visit Špilberk Castle or just head to the nearest pub. Evening operations at the main train station ran like clockwork, trams adhered to their schedules, and the only sign of disruption was a confused group of Austrian tourists frantically trying to understand why their train to Vienna was delayed by 87 years.
But the grand finale of this hellish ordeal came with Taylor Swift’s escape attempt. After hours of chaos holed up in a Brno hotel, she finally decided to flee with her crew. What she found at the airport, however, nearly broke her. Her Dassault Falcon jet was no longer a plane—it was a stripped carcass lying belly-down on the tarmac, its landing gear long since stolen. Aluminum panels had been torn off, the seats gutted, and empty champagne bottles from the jet’s minibar were scattered everywhere. Local rail enthusiasts had downed them in plain view of her team, smugly toasting their conquest of the pop star’s ride.
Desperate, Taylor called the U.S. embassy. The response? Uproarious laughter and a curt “This one’s on you.” Things got even worse when Austria’s ÖBB railway demanded compensation for two obliterated RailJets, and Czech Railways sent her a bill for billions in damages to destroyed trains, carriages, and rail infrastructure.
With no other options, Taylor was forced to board a nostalgic steam train—the only functioning vehicle available to her. Climbing aboard the creaky wooden relic was the ultimate humiliation. She sat in a first-class compartment, clutching her head in despair as she tried to ignore the musty upholstery, rattling windows, and thick clouds of locomotive smoke seeping into the cabin. When her patience finally snapped, she screamed about how this was the "worst travel experience" of her life. The conductor, unimpressed by the hysterics of an American celebrity, silently whipped out his ticket book and handed her a fine for riding without a valid ticket.
The train limped into Prague hours later, and Taylor was whisked to the military airport at Kbely, where she was finally allowed to leave. As her plane climbed into the skies, she immediately began venting on social media. On Instagram, she posted an emotional account of her ordeal, calling the Czech Republic "the worst country in the world" and labeling her experience as "absolute hell."
But instead of sympathy, Taylor found herself buried under an avalanche of abuse from Czech users. Her comments were flooded with insults, memes, and scathing remarks like, “Cry more, pop star,” and “Don’t come back, bitch.” One particularly popular comment simply read, "See you on the D1 next time."
Humiliated, Taylor deleted the posts and vowed never to mention the Czech Republic again. The country slowly began its recovery—fires burned out, bodies were cleared away, and railways were painstakingly repaired. But one thing was certain: Taylor Swift would never set foot in the Czech Republic again. And if she ever dared to return, she wouldn’t just face Swifties. She’d have to contend with furious rail fans, Plzeň’s bloodthirsty separatists, and one very determined train conductor with his ticket book at the ready.
== See also ==
Swifties
Taylor Swift
České dráhy
EuroCity
== References list ==
Category:Taylor Swift
Category:Shameless Verbatim Translations
Category:Bat Fuck Insane
Category:Conflict