I lightly ran my fingers over the cocking serrations caressing the tight grooves. Instinctively my right hand curled around the grip, the checkering on the front strap and main-spring housing biting into my fingers and palm. I barely felt the grip safety disengage. My index finger lay along the serial number, poised above the trigger guard, hovering in safe territory. My left hand clamped the slide between palm and fingers and the cocking serrations gripped my flesh. The only sound as I eased the slide rearward was the "snip-snap, clack" as the hammer cocked beneath the movement of the slide. Fighting the forward pull of recoil spring I gazed down into the empty chamber of my Wilson. It gaped like an open mouth, ready to be fed, eager to harness the explosions of thousands of cartridges. It said, "Give it to me. Hold nothing back. I can take it."