Aston Martin DBS
It’s Just Not Right, I tell ya.

Welp, its long awaited arrival finally culminated in a Paulling - I've been DBS'd.  It was intended that I bomb down to my bud’s Fri. night in the 930 for some gratuitous pics with it but the all-day steady drizzle drizzled that angle.  Ah well.  So door to door @ Alumibitch WOT in the rain didn’t exactly suck. 

I arrive to behold Greyness, nearly black hole-like in light absorbsion.  Tungsten Silver mit Graphite wheels welcome, defy, mock, and stupify me.  OhohOHHHHHHHH, this is niiiiiiiiice.  Aston Martin DBS means carboncarbon, here there EVERYwhere.  Front wings, hood, mirror posts, front splitters, rear diffuser, door sills - all woven in splenditude.

Before me jaw can regain composure from the floor it’s fired up and gunned afront of me - a V12 F1esque «<CRACK»> bellows from the twin bombs in the rear.  OH man.  It’s blowing my clothes around on my body and I’m 15’ back - yeowzer.

This is an iconic auto with which you just want to fondle like a pair of Penultimate Funbags - you can caress, fingerbang, oogle and ah _end_lessly over every square decimeter of this thing.  It REEKS detail in every cranny, and I’m gazing blankly at everything and nothing  - desperately lost with marvel in awe inspiring spell binding logic defying amazement.  It’s that impressive, yes.

Unfurl the flushmount door handle, cracking the-near cantlileving door presents an overt odiferous waft like unsealing a fresh vacuum bag of the finest Columbian coffee.  Insert me keister into stitched Alcantara yumminess. 
Grab hold the $3500 “key” FOB (I think that was the price, it might have been more) that looks like some sort of executive office mantle piece or one of the Crystals that power Superman’s Ice Cavern - it’s tip clear and illuminated and awesome.  Bask in the specter of the key's now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t routine into the glorious Piano Black centerstack - a pyro striking a match to a well doused pile of dry timber must feel this same endorphine surge. 
Note the *ridiculously* absurd phallic shifter, a rather enormously girthed, ergonomic and highly polished aluminum mass.  Quickly appreciate the shifter’s placement affording shoulder blade stays-put shifts / hand in LeMans-esque proximity to the wheel.  Cool.

Remember now for a sec here:  It’s 10:00pm, ‘raining’ fog…  oh, and for good measure butofcourse the streets are lined with Autumn’s finest collection of greasy brown leaves.

“You taking her for a rip or what!?” is *barked* at me before I’ve even remotely mentally inhaled all of what I want / could / should before considering such a bark.

Is he nutz?

Am I??

Is “no” an answer???

650mi says the odo, he suggests 'break-in' was dictated to be “as the car will live its driven life”.  Hey works for me.  Slide it into R and immediately note the light clutch.  Scratch that.  The *DEVOID* clutch.  Might as well be electro or servo or hail mary or Zen operated as - there is _zero_ pedalgrab feel.  None nada zilch zippo none.  Least I don’t stall, it’s actually surprisingly easy - which had me begging the question how long before you'll be replacing clutches here.  Note the absence of any chicklychic flappypaddle box  - uh uh.
Barely audible is a mutterance to the extent of valuation and the costs of many people’s houses, it’s quickly a distant din as I troll down the driveway smiling a Cheshire yet nervous smile.

Stats for the slippywetstuff expensive not overly thought out not particularly bright excursion:  5.9L V12, 510hp / 420tq, 3737lbs.  6spd thru 3.71 limited slip transaxle.  15.7” carbon ceramic Brembo’s, as seen on the likes of F430 - stuffed under 20x11(R) shod with 245F / 295R.  $266k base.  Perfect combo for a slick evening full of limited visibility - why not.

Ensuring the color stitched banner on the top-center of the wheel is “up”… the car is straight and the hammer is dropped.  The counterclockwise tach sweep quickly results in some rear wheel tramp - UPSHIFT.  Repeat 2nd, UPSHIFT.  Wow it’s greasy out WOW this is beyond cool.  Thank goodness for Electro Nannies yeah.

Tits AND nipples I dare say!

A quick run around the block, I can’t help but feel deprived - if that’s somehow possible?  Nonexistent are the opp’s to exploit even a microgram of LeMans bred British potential.  A few miles and it’s tucked safely away and all too soon.
More oogling, pics, drool, staring, senseless self mumbling, and a beverage or 2 later and it’s demanded and I quote - “dude! why don’t you RIP it down and up again real quick - and I want to HEAR it.  Oh yeah and this time no On Board Nannies.  And ensure a WOT holeshot out of the culdesac - my bud lives down there and is trying to sleep” (hey it’s past midnight).

Um er uhhhhhhhhhhh… okiedokie?


Mostmostmost certainly.

Down and up, I oblige as respectfully as I can while executing resplendent tire shred and astonishing holepuckerage.  Muwhahahahahaa, why not.  Few fries short of a Happy Meal he is - or I am - or both.  Or something, and stuff, and like things - I think.  I remind mesself, the dry opp will present sometime soon enough soon enough.