I once held in my two young hands a .41 Magnum Python. A local gunsmith shop built 125 of them back in the late 80s. I don’t recall the price, but it didn’t matter. I had a new, somewhat customized 24-3 and bouncing baby girl, so my gun budget for that decade was gone.
Now if the moon would go to the seventh house and Jupiter aligned with Mars, causing Colt to produce such a gun, I could get over my loathing of vent-ribbed revolvers and become one of those limburger & sardine sandwich eaters otherwise known as .41 magnum owners.