About that police officer, that I’m sure is no myth, that retires, after some twenty years of service, having never, not even once, fired his weapon in the line of duty or in anger. Gets up every morning dresses in the uniform of a peace officer, included in that chore, the strapping on of a weapon of life altering destruction, of attack, of defense. That in intervals of departmental rules must have some sort of maintenance performed on it, oiled and cleaned, babied, if you will, as a means of upkeep, always at the ready to spring into action. At least twice a year, must attend a firing range to requalify as the operator of one in possession of just such a deadly weapon. Have often heard of officers in the department that have been said to have an itchy finger, as if that day of weapon use, in the line of duty cannot come soon enough, then there are those that hope that day will never come. It can be quite understandable, I hypothesize, that when both types are in the field, faced with an encounter, of when, in the line of duty, the opportunity presents itself, to use or not, the action of deadly force, after years of babying this side arm as if it is indeed a natural appendage of oneself, that it should suddenly be seriously considered to be called into action. Something can and has on occasion, taken over a once mind of sound judgment, resulting in weapon overuse, of five to eight shots fired at some perceived threat, when one or two would have sufficed, a feeling never experienced before, a new sudden sensation of power, that only subsides, that can only be satisfied when the perceived threat is no more alive, mowed down, unmoving, and dead.