Page Sayvor, a serial killer of nebulous notoriety within a cluster of blustery, empty towns full of lonely and lousy people, has finally ensnared the only man he's ever intended to kill: Qasim Caulderwell-Pring, a critic of dark desires.

Qasim is the only man in the grand cosmic tilt who can judge the memories and purpose of Page's life and, upon casting that verdict and accepting his murder, Page will be free from the tangy new zest that has bled into his life: the flavor of guilt.

The tasteless tragicomedy that has been his life has left him with only the stale leftovers of tenuous morality that he cannot excise from his soul despite his violent efficiency with finality.

In the wake of this newfound need for indulgent psychoanalysis, a slew of corpses lay in Page's path, fueling the whispers of onus that are beating with raucous fury against the delicate shutters of his sanity.

With only a hearty breakfast on his plate and a tainted taste for nostalgia on his lips, Page reflects on his awful, terrible life; learning in the process that despite the myriad poisonous contradictions and obsessions in his brain he is, perhaps, not really a psychopath after all.

Maybe he's just an asshole.