The Shine and the Shadow
Wanting the Best vs. Carrying What Works
There is an undeniable allure to the beautifully engineered firearm. A hand-fitted CZ SP-01, a buttery-smooth HK P30L, or a finely tuned 2011 with its crisp break and surgical reset—these weapons are mechanical poetry. They speak to craftsmanship, to heritage, to the satisfaction of owning something at the apex of human capability. They are marvels. They are temptations. And for many, they live mostly in safes.
Herein lies the tension: between admiration and application, between indulgence and pragmatism. Because for all their elegance and precision, most of us aren't John Wick.
The Practical Realities
The cold truth is that a $1,500 pistol doesn’t necessarily carry, conceal, or even shoot better for most people than a $500 one. In fact, it may complicate things. A heavier frame might tug on your belt. A long slide might poke when you sit. An ambidextrous safety might add unnecessary bulk. And if you’re afraid to scuff the finish or holster it aggressively, then what exactly are you preparing for?
A Glock 19, a Ruger LCP Max, a SIG P365—they aren't glamorous. But they go bang, they conceal well, and they train affordably. They are the sneakers that get worn, not the dress shoes that stay in the box.
The Internal Monologue
Every gun owner with a sense of aesthetics and appreciation for machinery has had this debate. “Do I buy the one I want, or the one I’ll actually carry?” That tension plays out in range bags, in gun shop glass cases, and in the back of minds every time we scroll past another influencer’s glamor shot of a decked-out race gun.
You might even own both: the everyday workhorse and the weekend range prince. But you know which one really matters.
Budget vs. Bravado
There’s also the plain math. One high-end pistol can cost as much as:
- A reliable mid-tier carry pistol +
- Training course fees +
- Ammo for months +
- A good holster and belt +
- Spare mags and a trauma kit
For many, that’s a full setup—a real-world readiness kit. And in the event of a self-defense scenario, the DA isn’t going to be impressed with your taste in DLC coatings.
Tools vs. Totems
A friend of mine owns multiple CZ Shadow 2s—competition pistols with the kind of crisp triggers and slide-to-frame fit that feel like Swiss watchmaking in steel. He’s also got a Nike collection that rivals boutique showrooms. But here’s the thing: he uses those CZs. Trains with them. Competes. He’s a practitioner, not a collector. Me? I’m no John Wick. I own a P30L that runs like a 3 Series BMW, but it sees more safe time than range time.
There’s a distinction between tools and totems. A tool is used. Scratched. Worn. Trained with. A totem is admired, protected, preserved. Neither is inherently wrong—owning something beautiful isn’t a sin. But the clarity comes in knowing which is which.
Anime & Armory: A Totem Confession
I nearly bought a Sig P210—sleek, elegant, historic—because it showed up in Madlax, an anime where some friends voiced the English dub. That was the hook. Not ergonomics, not ammo logistics—just vibes. But the weight, the price, and the single-stack mag eventually brought me back down. That was my anti-Spike Siegel/IMI Masada moment. My Gunsmith Cats detour away from a CZ 75 fantasy. The gun stayed on the shelf. The nostalgia stayed in my head. And heaven help the fanboys who laid down the cash for a civilian P90 because of Gunslinger Girl.
The Arthur Paradox
How much of King Arthur is Excalibur vs. the Pendragon kid? The sword doesn’t make the king—but somehow we’ve convinced ourselves that having the right gear transforms us into the person wielding it in our imagination.
Arthur pulled a sword from a stone, but that was about proving worthiness—the blade was just the test, not the source of his power. Excalibur came later, a gift that recognized what he already was. The magic wasn’t in the metal; it was in the man who could be trusted with such a weapon.
Yet consumer culture has flipped this narrative. We’re sold the idea that acquiring the talisman grants the transformation. Buy the Les Paul and you’re Jimmy Page. Get the Leica and you’re Cartier-Bresson. Own the race gun and you’re John Wick. The tool becomes a shortcut to identity rather than an expression of earned skill.
The really insidious part is how this affects our relationship with practice itself. If the gear is supposed to be the source of capability, then struggling with a premium tool feels like personal failure rather than the natural learning process. Someone wrestling with an expensive guitar might think “I must not be musical” rather than “I need more practice.”
Meanwhile, the kid with the beat-up Stratocaster copy who plays it every day is actually becoming the guitarist, worn frets and all.
The sword didn’t make the swordsman. But somehow we keep shopping like it does.
Owning the Discrepancy
It’s okay to admire beautiful tools. It’s even okay to own them. But it’s important to be honest with yourself about which tools you depend on, and why. That honesty is what separates the collector from the practitioner, the shrine builder from the citizen ready to respond.
Preparedness isn’t found in finish quality. It’s found in familiarity, access, training, and mindset. You can love a gun like a work of art—but you should carry one like it’s a wrench.
When It Mattered Most
Eli Dicken at the Greenwood Park Mall. Jack Wilson at West Freeway Church. These are real-world examples that cut through all the gear mythology.
Dicken was 22, carrying a beat-up Glock 19 that had survived a motorcycle crash. When a mass shooter opened fire, he made an eight-shot engagement at 40+ yards, stopping the threat in 15 seconds. No custom trigger work. No optic. Just the skill his grandfather taught him, and a basic tool he knew how to use.
Wilson was 71. In 2019, he stopped a church shooter with a single headshot at 17 yards using a standard SIG P229. He had trained for years, preparing not for glory but for a grim moment he hoped would never come.
Neither Dicken nor Wilson woke up that morning hoping to become heroes. They became reluctant participants in someone else's violence, forced into split-second decisions that would haunt them forever. The precision we admire came at an enormous psychological cost that no amount of training can fully prepare you for.
The tactical gear culture often treats these scenarios like video game achievements—the perfect shot, the quick draw, the decisive action. But the reality is trauma, legal consequences, sleepless nights, and the weight of having taken a life, even justifiably. Wilson and Dicken didn't "win" anything. They survived something horrible and prevented worse from happening to others.
This is where the gear fantasy becomes not just silly but genuinely harmful. It romanticizes situations that are fundamentally tragic. The Instagram posts of perfectly arranged EDC setups, the fantasies about being the good guy with a gun—they completely miss that the actual experience is devastating for everyone involved.
Real preparedness isn't about looking tactical or feeling powerful. It's about accepting a terrible responsibility you hope you'll never have to fulfill. It's training not because you want to be a hero, but because you might have to live with the consequences of being unprepared when innocent people need protection.
The beat-up Glock and the standard P229 weren't tools of glory—they were tools of grim necessity. The real lesson isn't about gear at all. It's about the weight of carrying that responsibility seriously, and the hope that you'll never have to find out if you're truly ready for it.
Conclusion
There’s no shame in loving the lines of a P30L. But the real flex isn’t the gun you post—it’s the one you carry daily, train with consistently, and could rely on in the dark.
You’re no John Wick. And that’s not a failure. That’s freedom to make better, more honest choices.
Carry what makes sense. Respect what you admire. But don’t confuse the two.
Welcome to PDW.