Sean Evans
Monday October 31st, 2016

This article originally appeared on TheDrive.com.

By Sean Evans

Imagine this. You’re part of Floyd Mayweather’s inner sanctum, better known to outsiders and/or the poors as The Money Team. You’ve proven yourself a suitable member of the entourage, perhaps even being rewarded by Mayweather with a diamond-encrusted bauble or trinket. And, hey, good for you. There are far worse – and cheaper – circles to run in. It’s Friday night in Los Angeles. Mayweather wants to go to the club and let loose. The destination is set: Le Jardin, an exclusive destination for Hollywood's creme de la creme. Now, how to get everyone there?

Sure, you could all roll up in the retired boxer’s $300,000 custom Mercedes Sprinter, but he wants to make more of a statement. To floss a little harder. You’ll need five sets of wheels to accommodate the crew. Out come the key fobs. Mayweather takes the Koenigsegg CCXR Trevita, that $4.8 million Swedish sexbomb of a supercar. You know, one of the two in existence, that he sometimes likes to sit on.

That’s fair. Mayweather should get the best and most expensive whip. Besides, there are plenty of coveted keys left. One of the guys snags the Bugatti Veyron Grand Sport, in white. Before you can speak up, another dude snatches up the OTHER Bugatti Veyron Grand Sport, the black one. So you won’t be pushing a $3.2 million “toy.” That’s okay. There’s still some great stuff left in the garages. Maybe one of the two Bentley Mulsannes? Oh, those aren’t going tonight? How about one of the Rollers? The extended wheelbase Ghost, perhaps? Also staying home. Fine.

You inquire about the Ferraris, the Enzo or one of the twin 458s, or as Mayweather calls them, 916. No dice, but the McLaren MP4-12C is available. Sure, you beam. A bit of British supercar would work nicely. But Mayweather gives that orange beast to one of the guys he’s known a little longer than you. You’re panicking. What’s even left at this point? The final key is extended your way. You spy the trident logo and are crestfallen. Ugh. Really?

It’s the Maserati GranTurismo. The only non-supercar in tonight’s multi-million supercar fleet will be piloted – shamefully – by you. You’d almost rather pull up in the Bentley golf cart. Your anger at this slight dissipates on the ride to the club when you think that maybe you can make a quick entrance and exit. Maybe the paparazzi won’t be outside waiting, cameras at the ready. Your arrival is stealth, but when it comes time for the departure, it’s a melee outside. Shit, is that TMZ? It is. Quick, run away.

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