A serial-killer thinks he's Yibb-Tstll. Or aspires to be. Or is under the influence of. Anyway, he kills a bunch of people quite horribly while being pursued by a CID detective who's very smart and sardonic but has dumb assistants.
I'm always wary when a character in a story refers to his gun not as his "gun" or "rifle" or "pistol" but by it's make and model. This inevitably leads to a painstaking description of what a wound from this weapon will make in you i.e. a hole bigger than he Mariana Trench or some such. And Tynes commits this sin right in the third paragraph!
Fortunately, this tale turns out not to be a bit of right-wing gun nuttery (whew!) but instead a sort of Thomas Harris-like serial killer short with some humor injected via the police inspector. But it's little more than vignette and not that memorable unless you enjoy the gore-wallowing.
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