And for those of you that chose 928, I have but two words for you: Timing chain.

All 25 feet of it.

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Still got to go with the Porsche though, since I'd actually want to drive it... 13" wide rear rubber here I come.

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Corpse, Porsche. I like those two words together.

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It's the Porsche, no question.

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Because the 750il has too many options for engine replacement, whereas the 928 is delightfully specific in its choice of engine and transmission.

If you were lazy, you couyld simply pop another engine into the BMW and be done with it. It isn't the electrical and mechanical nightmare that the Porsche is, and then there's the fact that the Porsche 928 has an exceptionally sexy.

God, that sexy rear end.

You decide to opt for the 928.

And so it begins like so many sadomasochistic relationships.

There she is. Sexy, german. Dominant.

And you, out of shape and submissive. Subservient to HER needs.

You immediately set to work, satiating the needs of that overly complex, linerless V8. Getting her mechanically in shape wasn't that complicated. Only a month later, you have this once basket case of a car in order, mechanically, with a fresh (and mightily expensive) transmission in that gorgeous Porsche body and the V8 all together.

Yet, she taunts you. Teases you. You want so badly for your Porsche to run, you want so badly to please 'her.'

Now, you must delve deeper into the rats nest that Porsche called an electrical system.

You contort your body into all kinds of ridiculous positions, rivaling a contortionist as you twist yourself to access the many panels. And of course, the car needs to be live for you to test these things. The electrical system zaps you again and again-- and like any masochist, you keep coming back for more. Your knuckles and fingertips are quite badly burnt, and that class ring you once wore is now welded permanently onto your hand.

But you don't care. You want this 928 running. You need it like you need to breathe.

After many terribly painful days upon days of torturous agony and contortion, you finally decide to twist the key.

And that V8 churns out just the siren song that you'd been longing to hear for so long. You lust after it and grin in stupified satisfaction as you teeter upon the brink of success-- and then, suddenly as it started, the engine gasps for air, starved for fuel, and goes silent with a shudder.

The fucking fuel pump.

You quickly jack up the car, in a fevered fury to get the fuel pump going so that you can take your prize to paint-- you know she'd always wanted a luxuriant coat of black paint, and you wanted to give it to 'her' so badly.

As you wriggle under the car to get at the fuel pump, your leg knocks one of the jacks out, and the car comes down on top of you. The fall cracks nearly all of your ribs, making it impossible for you to breathe. You try desperately to breathe in, but it's too late.

There you lie, dead underneath the cruel mistress of a car that you chose to take on... and then it occurs to you, as the world is beginning to white-out, this would have never happened if you had simply bought the slightly-less-sexy 7-series.

You take in your final breath and expire.

Some time later, you awaken to the scent of brimstone and smoke, the world a creepy and dimly lit shade of crimson. It's unbearably hot. It is the hell that you'd always imagined. And then you hear a laugh. A sickly, demented and twisted laugh. And it's a woman who is laughing.

You can't make out the shape of any human beings nearby in the dim light.

And then suddenly, two lights pop up seemingly out of nowhere, flashing on and dazzling you. And there she sits.

Your Porsche is perched on a basalt cliff not twenty feet ahead of you. And it's her. SHE is laughing at you.

Welcome to hell, to be forever tormented by the thing you love so dearly.

It's cost you your life. But now she will be with you forever. To laugh in your face.

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