There was extra bracing in the engine bay and swathes of carbonfibre just about everywhere – even across the chasm left empty by its absent rear seats.
Yet its kerb weight matched its base car, despite a bank of blanked-out switches; there’s not even a parking sensor to be found, somewhat terrifyingly, given the car’s value.
However, this doesn’t immediately feel like the track-hardened, driver-focused weapon it was lauded as in the late noughties. Sure, its engine fires ferociously into life, practically rocking the bodywork around you. But the steering wheel looks mundane Merc, no aggressive wings or roll-cage latticework fill your mirrors and a fiddly lever operates an occasionally reticent automatic gearbox.
It’s a world away from the lightened flywheels and chuntering revs of other Stuttgart-born specials of the era.
Like the very best driver’s cars, though, the Black Series’ magic is easily found. While the transmission does feel ponderous under interrogation (even its sportier modes need a mental ‘one… two…’ between shifts), every other element of the car feels so constantly alive that you’ll never pine for anything else.
Beyond the Comfort, Sport or Manual modes of the ’box, there’s nothing left to press beyond the ESP button (which does ‘on’ or ‘off’ with a mere tap), so you can get right into the thick of driving it.
It’s surprising how compliant the ride feels. We’re used to the gnarliest specials rattling our teeth and spine in road use, but the Black Series is never anything other than a fast, ferocious Mercedes-Benz, smoothing the edges of Britain’s road surfaces.
You could spend hundreds of miles ensconced in its bucket seat and feel brilliant. There’s certainly little need to trailer it to a track day, even if an SUV with a tow hook might deliver better fuel efficiency.
But you will almost certainly set an early alarm so you can take the long route there. This is a real ‘last gallon on Earth’ contender, a car designed with its focus almost unwaveringly on fun.
