I have always considered myself a "people person." An entrepreneur, I come into contact with individuals from all walks of life, all economic backgrounds. Being a sociable sort never hurts when doing business. I regard myself a good citizen and a responsible member of society.

It took ownership of an E55 to show me absolutely how wrong this whole notion is.

As it turns out, no car out there could be a more opposite assertion, nor has any car I’ve previously owned, including a few full-bore semi-race cars. At least those machines made no pretense of their purpose, their existence. The E55, as well as all of its Kompressor brethren, are rolling lies. Beautifully crafted slaps in the face to society as a whole.

A P-car, an F-car, a Viper, oh my. All of these sports cars tell you what to expect from the moment you glance at their purposeful forms, their immense rolling stock. The burble/shriek/wail from their tailpipes tell all to move over, a FAST CAR is coming through.

Not the E55. Its 4-doors and understated sheet metal pretend to be nice. It greets other cars while secretly clutching a large-bore handgun behind its back, “How are you today? Great. Lovely weather we’re – BOOM!” Dead car. By the time the faint whine of the supercharger is heard, it’s far too late. On to the next mark.

I can barely slide into its buttery leather without my pulse quickening, brow starting to glisten with the anticipatory sweat of some 500-odd ponies about to be rousted from slumber. The ventilated seats are helping, yet only add to the farce. Sure you’re a respectable car. Sure.

I turn the key and stir the beast. The quiet thrum of the mill contracts my pupils, flares my nostrils. My pulse quickens as the revs settle down to idle, and I am no longer the same man. I now crave raw meat and open road.

Searching -nay- hunting for a kill now. I grip the thick wheel while the tires shriek under the collective motivation of all of those foot-pounds, clutching in vain for traction on the tarmac. Finally underway, the blue haze from the protesting radials wafts out of the cabin. Along with it go the last traces of responsible adulthood.

The balance of the night is a blur. Fleeting images of an M-something shrinking in the rearview. Me throwing my head back and bellowing laughter at an RX-8 with NOS stickers. More tire smoke. A Cobra. Sleep.

I realize now I am actually an Antisocial. I pretend to be upstanding, only to take any and all opportunity given to break speed laws. Laws crafted by those who can’t understand the visceral pull of a forced-induction V-8, or its effects. Meh. Laws are for lesser machines.

How long can I keep up this dual existence? Dr Jeckyl needs to make a living, but Mr. Hyde needs to hunt. It’s only a matter of time before the wife finds out I’m not having an affair….then what? If it comes down to the wife or the car, I don’t know how what I’ll do…..I can’t get rid of the E55…….HELP !!!