"For four years I've been an Uberman. I like the title Uberman more than Uber driver. It sounds like Übermensch, something Nietzsche wrote about in Thus Spoke Zarathustra. I don't really know what it means, something about killing God. But it makes me feel like I have a purpose. It makes me feel like the kind of man who wakes up at five in the morning after a night of passionate lovemaking and opens his window and stares out at the rising sun, breathing the crisp air, and thinks, yes, this day is mine, and then cuts down a tree with an ax and then writes a dense historic novel or conducts experiments testing the electromagnetism of various minerals that he digs up from the mines. But these are just feelings. I'm not an important man. I'm a pathetic man who calls himself an Uberman."

Those are the words of twenty-seven-year-old Juni, a demoralized rideshare driver who's more often than not drunk behind the wheel. When he's not driving, he's writing a biography on Lee Jung Hwan, a former schoolmate who committed the deadliest school shooting in American history before killing himself. As Juni's obsession with Jung Hwan deepens, he begins to lose his own grip on reality. Reminiscent of the movie Taxi Driver, Stickman is a surreal and deadpan exploration of alienation, masculinity, and what it means to be Asian American in late capitalism.