ViperInBlack
Enthusiast
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This past weekend I took delivery of a Black Mamba SRT-10. Black is de rigeur for automotive enjoyment, for nowhere does there exist a color which is so intolerant of light, heat, and atmospheric particulate. In plainer words, this finish is stunning and a virtual nightmare even with Dawn Dishwashing Detergent and Comet Cleanser.
It is no longer a matter of whether you should preserve it from dust and predatory vermin, but you cannot look continually at the finish, or it will fade. It is unforgiving of any material other than angora fur, and you have to clay bar, polish, seal, hope, pray, bargain and do heavy drugs.
I now know, without reservation, that the Black Mamba was Dodge’s personal vendetta against a group of demanding and whiney Viper buyers who continually insist upon change. You want change? You’re not crazy about white? OK, here’s your damned Black Mamba, now deal with it.
Sal Zaino laughs at me. I keep buying clay bars. I am making little fishes with it.
I hear the paint oxidizing while I attempt to sleep.
Buy Cannon or Fieldcrest towels and store clerks have imbedded steel wool fibers into it; just for grins.
Do not attempt to use the ultra-cool car cover provided. It is oh-so-cool on the outside and uses a a 200 grit lining. It also is a four man job. If you throw it over the Mamba, it simply falls off (randomly) one of the sides or the end opposite to that upon which you are working. Neighbors are bemused. It is like a circus act.
The red appointments in the interior were initially striking. Now they are alarming. I worry that the paint will fade so badly that the interior will no longer match; not the red but the black. I feel as though at least three shades of black are emerging. It has been 31 hours since the car arrived.
It was delivered at night. There were two reasons for this. Can you say “ultra-violet?”
The second reason is Ralphie.
You may recall that Ralphie is my neighbor. A nice fellow; a doctor, and as I mentioned, he had his home built around his five collector car garage and then bought a sixth car and had to be sedated.
Ralphie, as I mentioned, has, among other vehicles, two NCRS top flight Corvettes, a restored Mercedes roadster and the last year of the water cooled 911 Porsche. He drives each only on the driest, mildest, partly cloudy day and then for a distance (I have measured) of ~3 miles. He then returns and dutifully does the others. He trolls for admiration. His daily driver is a Chrysler van, 1988 vintage.
As you likely also recall, Cletis and Jethro were the two nice fellows who summed their neurons to form a concept as to how to remove my red Viper from an inappropriate transporter with even more inappropriate and unmatched planks of wood. They were possessed of numerous tattoos and both dipped *****. They said “well, damn” (pronounced “day-um”) and “yes’um” a lot, and they hummed old Lynyrd Skynyrd favorites. They had never seen a Viper but were mighty darn proud to be delivering one no matter how many times they drove by the street because they did not know that the abbreviation of “Road” was “Rd.” Day-um.
Cletis and Jethro showed me where “y’all need to make your mark here”, provided some soiled bill of sale and a disclaimer of meteorite damage (as best I could tell).
I miss the red car, and I miss Cletis and Jethro. Some things in life are priceless. For everything else, there is a home equity line.
Ralphie’s nightmare began the day that Cletis and Jethro delivered the red Viper. While they were scratching various body parts, Ralphie noted the gathering crowd of admiring onlookers and tried in vain to garner some attention by exiting and returning in one of his collector cars.
This is very similar to a homely guy trying to solicit the attention of a supermodel. Initially, he is poised and appears to have some sense of self-respect, but soon desperation ensues and he is trying to do Karaoke to the theme for “Three’s Company.”
And so, Ralphie’s panic evolved. More gathered around the red Viper, and there did not appear to be any apparent notice of his procession of cars “that need to be let out at this very moment.”
Rehashing the details of Ralphie’s progressive deterioration is neither appropriate nor needed. He simply emotionally collapsed.
In the three ensuing weeks of inpatient, then partial outpatient hospitalization and then slow re-entry into the community, with attendant reduction of his meds, Ralphie began making home visits. I would notice that Helen (his wife) would take Ralphie for a walk every evening before returning him to his partial hospitalization program for the night.
It all appeared to be progressing well except on those occasions when I had rolled out my red SRT-10. Helen would tell him “just don’t look” as I waved from a squat position while polishing a wheel.
However, Ralphie would look. It was likely a compulsive behavior over which he had little-to-no control. He would look, Helen would grab his arm, and he would make a noise that sounded, for the life of me, like “meep, meep.” I do not know what that means, but I feel it is a distress call like three dots, three dashes and then three dots.
I searched inside of myself to decide if I was wheeling out the Viper simply to agitate Ralphie or to evoke his “meeps.” I thought that perhaps it was cruel and heartless to ****** with his tortured mind. I felt that if I were truly a good person, I would consider his feelings and how this exposure to the Viper harmed him.
Nah.
In either case, on Saturday night, the New Jersey branch of La Cosa Nostra brought my Back Mamba. It was in a hermetically sealed transport which contrasted sharply with the rig that Cletis and Jethro had used. However, this was routine for these New Jersey guys whereas it had been a life altering experience for Cletis and Jethro.
The New Jersey boys had all signature areas marked in yellow, and merely said “sign here please.” They were not nearly as impressed as Cletis had been when I displayed that I knew my “ciphers” as he had called the letters to my name.
The Mamba was beautiful (of course it was night and the ravages of dust bunnies had not as yet begun), and it was expertly unloaded, and with equal ease, my departing red SRT-10 (with its excessive mileage now at 802) was put aboard the transport. It was now three weeks old, and unquestionably a vintage car by this time.
While the loading and unloading of Vipers occurred, the neighborhood was expectedly quiet. It should be. It was Saturday night, and people with real lives were living them.
Well, almost everyone…
When the transporter had pulled off the main road onto my street, a car had parked out on the main drag, idling with its lights on. Initially, I thought this was the police wanting to do a search and seizure or cavity check of the New Jersey contingency. But, the car merely sat there idling.
When both Vipers were on the street: the Black Mamba offloaded, but the Red Viper not yet on loaded, that car that had been idling, exploded into life. There was this high pitched scream of an engine being pushed to its redline as the car came flying around the corner.
It was a new, bright yellow, 2004 Porsche 911 Turbo Coupe. It screeched around the corner and whizzed by so quickly that both of the New Jersey boys put their hands inside their jackets. I looked rapidly from them to the back end of the 911 Turbo as it flew down the street. I sensed impending sounds of Glock 9’s.
We all simply froze. The driver of the Turbo had done a drift, and had rotated 180 degrees. He was heading back at us, but just before he reached us, he locked up his brakes, came to a screeching halt separating me from the New Jersey boys whose hands were now holding black objects and beginning to exit their jackets.
I stared rather wild-eyed at the driver of the Turbo 911. I have no idea what I expected to see, but there sat Raphie…mouth agape, eyes wild, breathing heavily and appeared to be struggling to say something. There was saliva on his chin.
As the New Jersey boys began to approach the Porsche, one on each side, exchanging nods…Helen appeared, having heard the commotion, having exited their home and was coming up to join the scene.
It was far too late. Ralphie merely stared from the old red Viper, to new Black Mamba Viper, to me, to her and back, repeatedly, and simply cried “MEEP! Oh MEEP, MEEP!”
They say he is resting comfortably in a more secured setting. They are selling the Porsche.
It is no longer a matter of whether you should preserve it from dust and predatory vermin, but you cannot look continually at the finish, or it will fade. It is unforgiving of any material other than angora fur, and you have to clay bar, polish, seal, hope, pray, bargain and do heavy drugs.
I now know, without reservation, that the Black Mamba was Dodge’s personal vendetta against a group of demanding and whiney Viper buyers who continually insist upon change. You want change? You’re not crazy about white? OK, here’s your damned Black Mamba, now deal with it.
Sal Zaino laughs at me. I keep buying clay bars. I am making little fishes with it.
I hear the paint oxidizing while I attempt to sleep.
Buy Cannon or Fieldcrest towels and store clerks have imbedded steel wool fibers into it; just for grins.
Do not attempt to use the ultra-cool car cover provided. It is oh-so-cool on the outside and uses a a 200 grit lining. It also is a four man job. If you throw it over the Mamba, it simply falls off (randomly) one of the sides or the end opposite to that upon which you are working. Neighbors are bemused. It is like a circus act.
The red appointments in the interior were initially striking. Now they are alarming. I worry that the paint will fade so badly that the interior will no longer match; not the red but the black. I feel as though at least three shades of black are emerging. It has been 31 hours since the car arrived.
It was delivered at night. There were two reasons for this. Can you say “ultra-violet?”
The second reason is Ralphie.
You may recall that Ralphie is my neighbor. A nice fellow; a doctor, and as I mentioned, he had his home built around his five collector car garage and then bought a sixth car and had to be sedated.
Ralphie, as I mentioned, has, among other vehicles, two NCRS top flight Corvettes, a restored Mercedes roadster and the last year of the water cooled 911 Porsche. He drives each only on the driest, mildest, partly cloudy day and then for a distance (I have measured) of ~3 miles. He then returns and dutifully does the others. He trolls for admiration. His daily driver is a Chrysler van, 1988 vintage.
As you likely also recall, Cletis and Jethro were the two nice fellows who summed their neurons to form a concept as to how to remove my red Viper from an inappropriate transporter with even more inappropriate and unmatched planks of wood. They were possessed of numerous tattoos and both dipped *****. They said “well, damn” (pronounced “day-um”) and “yes’um” a lot, and they hummed old Lynyrd Skynyrd favorites. They had never seen a Viper but were mighty darn proud to be delivering one no matter how many times they drove by the street because they did not know that the abbreviation of “Road” was “Rd.” Day-um.
Cletis and Jethro showed me where “y’all need to make your mark here”, provided some soiled bill of sale and a disclaimer of meteorite damage (as best I could tell).
I miss the red car, and I miss Cletis and Jethro. Some things in life are priceless. For everything else, there is a home equity line.
Ralphie’s nightmare began the day that Cletis and Jethro delivered the red Viper. While they were scratching various body parts, Ralphie noted the gathering crowd of admiring onlookers and tried in vain to garner some attention by exiting and returning in one of his collector cars.
This is very similar to a homely guy trying to solicit the attention of a supermodel. Initially, he is poised and appears to have some sense of self-respect, but soon desperation ensues and he is trying to do Karaoke to the theme for “Three’s Company.”
And so, Ralphie’s panic evolved. More gathered around the red Viper, and there did not appear to be any apparent notice of his procession of cars “that need to be let out at this very moment.”
Rehashing the details of Ralphie’s progressive deterioration is neither appropriate nor needed. He simply emotionally collapsed.
In the three ensuing weeks of inpatient, then partial outpatient hospitalization and then slow re-entry into the community, with attendant reduction of his meds, Ralphie began making home visits. I would notice that Helen (his wife) would take Ralphie for a walk every evening before returning him to his partial hospitalization program for the night.
It all appeared to be progressing well except on those occasions when I had rolled out my red SRT-10. Helen would tell him “just don’t look” as I waved from a squat position while polishing a wheel.
However, Ralphie would look. It was likely a compulsive behavior over which he had little-to-no control. He would look, Helen would grab his arm, and he would make a noise that sounded, for the life of me, like “meep, meep.” I do not know what that means, but I feel it is a distress call like three dots, three dashes and then three dots.
I searched inside of myself to decide if I was wheeling out the Viper simply to agitate Ralphie or to evoke his “meeps.” I thought that perhaps it was cruel and heartless to ****** with his tortured mind. I felt that if I were truly a good person, I would consider his feelings and how this exposure to the Viper harmed him.
Nah.
In either case, on Saturday night, the New Jersey branch of La Cosa Nostra brought my Back Mamba. It was in a hermetically sealed transport which contrasted sharply with the rig that Cletis and Jethro had used. However, this was routine for these New Jersey guys whereas it had been a life altering experience for Cletis and Jethro.
The New Jersey boys had all signature areas marked in yellow, and merely said “sign here please.” They were not nearly as impressed as Cletis had been when I displayed that I knew my “ciphers” as he had called the letters to my name.
The Mamba was beautiful (of course it was night and the ravages of dust bunnies had not as yet begun), and it was expertly unloaded, and with equal ease, my departing red SRT-10 (with its excessive mileage now at 802) was put aboard the transport. It was now three weeks old, and unquestionably a vintage car by this time.
While the loading and unloading of Vipers occurred, the neighborhood was expectedly quiet. It should be. It was Saturday night, and people with real lives were living them.
Well, almost everyone…
When the transporter had pulled off the main road onto my street, a car had parked out on the main drag, idling with its lights on. Initially, I thought this was the police wanting to do a search and seizure or cavity check of the New Jersey contingency. But, the car merely sat there idling.
When both Vipers were on the street: the Black Mamba offloaded, but the Red Viper not yet on loaded, that car that had been idling, exploded into life. There was this high pitched scream of an engine being pushed to its redline as the car came flying around the corner.
It was a new, bright yellow, 2004 Porsche 911 Turbo Coupe. It screeched around the corner and whizzed by so quickly that both of the New Jersey boys put their hands inside their jackets. I looked rapidly from them to the back end of the 911 Turbo as it flew down the street. I sensed impending sounds of Glock 9’s.
We all simply froze. The driver of the Turbo had done a drift, and had rotated 180 degrees. He was heading back at us, but just before he reached us, he locked up his brakes, came to a screeching halt separating me from the New Jersey boys whose hands were now holding black objects and beginning to exit their jackets.
I stared rather wild-eyed at the driver of the Turbo 911. I have no idea what I expected to see, but there sat Raphie…mouth agape, eyes wild, breathing heavily and appeared to be struggling to say something. There was saliva on his chin.
As the New Jersey boys began to approach the Porsche, one on each side, exchanging nods…Helen appeared, having heard the commotion, having exited their home and was coming up to join the scene.
It was far too late. Ralphie merely stared from the old red Viper, to new Black Mamba Viper, to me, to her and back, repeatedly, and simply cried “MEEP! Oh MEEP, MEEP!”
They say he is resting comfortably in a more secured setting. They are selling the Porsche.
