The canonical dystopias of modern fiction, 1984, Brave New World, and occasionally the short story Harrison Bergeron of Kurt Vonnegut, depict societies in which a given notion of the zeitgeist is illustrated at its maximal heights of absurdity. 1984 rakes muck out of government surveillance, though more relevantly it depicts a society in which a concerted effort on the very use of language has become the common place goal; reality can no longer changed except by changing language, and thus the notion of ‘’Orwellian language’’ and ‘’doublethink.’’ Brave New World depicts a society maximized for interclass stability managed by the complete appropriation of sexuality and reproduction by the State-Society. Harrison Bergeron is an illustration of how attempts to maximize a ‘’fairness’’ and ‘’equality’’ of the distribution of innate traits and abilities leads to the hampering of pro-social and civilizational aspirations. Each of these, in their own way, has already come true.

The dystopia, in other words, is a kind of critique of culture. It is a given that the world it illustrates is over the top, exaggerated, sardonic, but this should not be confused with the thrust of its argument and meaning. To say our society isn’t dystopic merely because there isn’t actually a Ministry of Love, soma, or 100+ amendments to the Constitution is to miss the point. The exaggeration was to show what was otherwise missed for its apparent ordinariness, to show the absurdity in simply postulating the logical conclusion of certain principles sought above all others.

Mister by Alex Kurtagic is, in this vein, a classically reactionary take on the dystopia. It wears its opposition to the progressive paradigms of feminism, multiculturalism, and equality loudly and without apology, which is almost certain to prove it a kind of litmus test. Social justice warrior types would shriek and throw the book away with rage, which is, at least to my mind, the most glowing recommendation that could be given to it. It couldn’t be more triggering if it tried.

Perhaps it is worth backing up quickly to draw out a few details which form the plot. The year is 2022. A brilliant, white, apolitical English program developer is called to Madrid on business. His business centers around programming AI semantic analysis programs which can read and structure business finances to exploit the loopholes of business tax policies changed as frequently as possible in order to trip up businesses and extract taxes to support a dysfunctional government. The Euro is inflating to a degree that warrants department stores to keep electronic prices on food to keep them up to date with inflation. A Ron Paul-style Happening is taking place in America. The American evolutionary psychologist Kevin MacDonald is on trial in Madrid for hate crimes.

No, really, Kevin MacDonald is a character.

Like any dystopia, the plot is not nearly as important as the society being illustrated. The protagonist of our story, who only goes by the name of Mister, is but an instrument so we may see the wonders of multiculturalism and feminism at their most extreme and salient. If one were taking the plot too seriously, there is a discussion about ¾ which should jar any reader from agonizing over the particulars of the plot too much, but I won’t spoil the device as it’s worth enjoying for itself by any reader. No, the purpose is to give the reader a tour of a Madrid in which the excesses of progressivism have wrought their destruction on society. If the experience of the society might be summarized, imagine the inconveniences a little multiculturalism has had on your own life; being unable to communicate effectively with English-illiterate workers at a restaurant, save that this is the norm for every possible area of public life.

The passage in which Mister attempts to order a pizza for delivery is illustrative of both the general tone and Kurtagic’s mastery of prose (which, I should warn potential readers, also assumes a competency in Spanish, and frequently includes intentional grammatical mistakes):

Upon dialing the number, he was greeted by an electronic voice, offering a list of options. He pressed the hash button repeatedly, then the star button, then random buttons, but this failed to confuse the IVR, which had, by then proceeded to enumerate the options. This it did with infuriatingly slow enunciation and pleonastic prolixity, supplying an abundance of irrelevant information and structuring it in the most repetitive manner that was grammatically possible. Naturally, since the telepizza number was one of those premium numbers, it was in the financial interest of the pizza firm to artificially extend the duration of the call, not only by redacting and delivering its options menu this way, but also by placing the most frequently used option at the end of each list.

“Buenos noches. Bienvido a Cyberpizza. Por favor indique en que idioma le gustaría escuchar el menu de opciones. Good evening. Welcome to Cyberpizza. Please indicate in what you language you would like to hear the options menu…”

The recorded voice repeated the statement in French, Arabic, Urdu, Punjabi, Bengali, Swahili, Sotho, Nguni, Ciluba, Hausa, Tamazight, Mandarin, Cantonese, and a bewildering array of unidentifiable languages, until, finally, under option 87, it offered English, ahead of Spanish.

He made his selection, prompting the IVR to take him to the next tier of options. “You now have forty-five choices. Please press one if you would like…”

The thermometer of his anger quickly rising, he sighed impatiently, his rumbling stomach, salivating mouth, and primitive brain enervated by the thought of a piping hot, thin crust pizza, covered with pepperoni; double mozzarella, chilies, spicy beef, onions, and Tabasco sauce. He had decided that he needed it fast.

Slow minutes passed, until finally the IVR read out the option he required.

“You now have eighteen choices…”

This, for 500 pages. This, for every simple interaction we take for granted, from getting a cab driver to receiving service on a plane flight to buying groceries. Even after you’ve gotten the point, the book continues to beat you down into misery and submission, which is, after all, the point. A Madrid where the natives are a rarely witnessed minority population, and even then can’t help but exercise distrust given the numerous times politeness would never get one where they’re trying to go. This is a dystopia which penalizes and wears at simple, pro-civic social engagement and attitudes.

You never realize how much you take queuing for granted until you are thrust into a situation where standing in line would help make things orderly, but where standing in line doesn’t present itself as a spontaneous solution to an ad hoc group’s collective problems. Understandably, people waiting in line for their turn is the exception rather than the rule; at a few points Mister exercises some creative uses of the elbow and hand to board public transit or to make a purchase at a department store. This is the way in which Kurtagic illustrates the fundamental problem facing multicultural societies: if you can’t expect people of other groups to respect basic standards of decency, you yourself become unable to maintain that basic standard of decency lest you shall be exploited by the less scrupulous. Simple problems which have simple solutions, when they take place between strangers at great racial and cultural removes, become problems for which the solutions are even further away. Traffic, which as you might imagine depends crucially on people obeying a few specific laws, is always a nightmare in Madrid.

Those who take action against the multicultural orthodoxy ruining their societies are unilaterally labeled by mainstream media sources as the “Esoteric Hitlerists,” though the reader is left to speculate as to the actual levels of esotericism and appreciation of Hitler enjoyed by those so-described. It is clear that Hitler has taken on a new means of signaling one’s cultural affiliations, not that this would represent any great evolution of a “Hitler meme” as it is already employed in our culture. Given Kurtagic’s background in the European metal scene, it is perhaps unsurprising to find positive and atypically specific statements about the underground metal scene and the role of paganism in appreciating and defending traditional European culture. This level of specificity may hamper mainstream appreciation, but then again it is clearly not intended for mainstream consumption; if you find yourself reading Mister, you’re already far off the beaten path. Undoubtedly one should be prepared for relatively esoteric discussions of culture.

This is a book which, from the right perspective, is at times enthralling, gripping, and occasionally terrifying. Its knack for drawing out the messier implications of multiculturalism, feminism, and anti-racism is unparalleled among fictional works. Written in 2009, scandals of multiculturalism such as the Rotherham case ought to warrant it a reading by anyone who suspects this is only the beginning of a nastier epidemic. I daresay it is of a prophetic value, while earnestly hoping its predictions never come true.