I still can’t quite believe this. I’ve interviewed some really fascinating people in my time, from musicians to writers to leaders of satanic churches, but this is very different. Normally, the process of actually arranging an interview involves a bit of research, a whole load of emailing, perhaps a few phone calls and then, eventually, a date, a time and a location emerge, and you’re away. For that reason, it’s not usually worth mentioning in the final article, but this time around it most certainly is. A few weeks ago, I interviewed Lak Mitchell about BoomTown. It was a fascinating piece to write, and I’m pleased with how it came out, but I wasn’t ready for what was going happen next.

A few days after the article went live, I started to notice some strange, and disturbing things. I’d be out walking and swear that I saw someone watching me from the distance, or be in town and hear the snap of camera shutter from somewhere nearby. There were signs that my computer had been tampered with, and I saw the same ornate, black pickup truck parked near my car over and over. I thought I was going crazy, but then, suddenly, it all started to make sense. I found a big, unmarked envelope on my doormat. There was one sheet of paper inside, with handwritten symbols. It seemed like utter gibberish, but after sending a scan over the Cultured Vultures decoding team (yes, we have one, and what), they were able to figure out what it meant.

The first line was a statement – “SO SHALL WE RISE”, the second was a set of numbers, GPS co-ordinates, and the third was a date and time. Now, for obvious reasons, I can’t tell you exactly where it was they led to, but it was remote, let’s just leave it at that. On the drive up I went nearly an hour without seeing any signs of civilisation before the destination came into view. It was some kind of disused warehouse complex, and as I approached I saw a figure on hill just beyond, but once I got a bit closer they disappeared over the edge, and I heard the faint rumble of an engine fire up, and then speed away. As you can probably imagine, I was shitting myself by this stage, even more so when I parked up and saw a series of graffiti arrows on the walls, which I tentatively followed until I was taken to the side door of one of the smaller buildings, marked with a huge X.

I carefully pushed the door open, and immediately heard the faint rumble of a generator. I could only see the wires, which guided my gaze across to the only objects in the grey concrete space, dappled with what little sunlight could negotiate the holes in the sheet metal roof. There was a chair, which was presumably meant for me, and in front of it a television that looked like it was almost my age, balanced on a metal desk. All the wires coming out of the back either led back out of the room or into a small unmarked box underneath, and it was already on, percolating with silent static. As I edged over to the chair and sat down, the TV sprang to life, fuzzing loudly and snapping a live feed into view, and there he was. Facing me, being broadcast from some unknown source, was BoomTown’s most infamous agitator – The Masked Man.

He was unmistakable, garbed in the exact same top hat, goggles and black mask he’d been wearing during his takeover at Bang Hai Palace at the end of last year’s fair. I mean, it could have been a stand-in, for all I know, but looking back on it now, I’m certain it was really him. For what felt like a decade, neither one of us said a word. It really is difficult to figure out who starts when the other person is behind a mask, but by this stage I knew why I was there, so I just got on with it, frantically pawing my phone from my pocket and hitting record. Admittedly, frazzled as I was by the whole scenario, my curiosity completely overtook my professionalism at first. “Who are you?” I blurted, but he didn’t respond beyond a small inclination of the head, causing whatever light was illuminating him to glint in his goggles, so I regrouped and carried on. “Why do you keep your identity unknown?” I continued. “Why the mask?”

His voice was nothing if not intimidating, deep, refined, almost stately in a sinister sort of way. “I am everyone and no one, I am known by all but familiar to none, I am not your leader, only you can be that.” He growled. “I do not wish to take the reigns of power, I wish to set free the horse that is enslaved by the machine and put the power back in to the hands of the people. They cannot discredit some one they don’t know, I am one but I am many, if they take me prisoner, then there are many of me to take my place, you only see me, you do not see the thousands who stand beside me.” If nothing else, I was starting to get an idea of the tone of this interview, The Masked Man had a message to send, and it was up to me to ask the right questions, I got the feeling that anything else would be met with cold silence, as evidenced by my follow up question.

“Why do you object to the rule and regime of comrade Jose?” I asked, to no response. This confused me, it seemed like a fair query, his takeover at Bang Hai had made it clear that this was his stance, and it’s only supported by the rumours that his people have infiltrated the Sector 6 industrial district. “I mean, some have struggled to keep up with the speed of growth,” I carried on, nervously “Some would say she has brought economic development, security, progress_” “Progress at what cost!?” He said, slicing across me. “Boomtown was once a peaceful place, a place of harmony and equality, so the legend goes. Now it’s a place of industry, drudgery and toil, where the rich grow richer and poor grow poorer. We only hear of the prosperity and wealth of the ruling elite, who sell us their dream of success, which they will never really let us attain.” “So it’s about breaking free from delusion, as much as from leadership?” I managed, before he carried on. “We will only ever be squabbling for the crumbs off the plate, and all the time while we are distracted with these petty squabbles, so our lands are laid bare, our resources drained, our rivers poisoned and our seas emptied. So, indeed, we are victims of the great illusion, constantly striving and struggling to obtain a lifestyle we will never actually have time to live.”

It was becoming clear that this wasn’t about power, even remotely. By this stage I had no chance of chiming in, he was in full swing, gesturing wildly with waves, points and clenching fists as he spoke. “I do not seek to control anyone or anything, I seek to de-control, if it is the will of the people then Comrade Jose and her regime will be deposed,” He said, “Let us not forget she is also a victim in this, perhaps the greatest victim of all of us, a child of the Barrio groomed for power, seeking to liberate and better the lives of her people, yet again only to be consumed by the machine, a puppet of power, corrupted by its demands and disabled by its bureaucracy, she is not a leader, she is being led!” I couldn’t resist trying to pierce the hypocrisy swelling beneath that statement, so I took a jab, I asked why he took over the palace, and whether such activity was really in aid of their supposed cause. “Our aim with this action was to show the people that the power their rulers have is only the power which the people choose to give them, they look down from their palaces on high as if they are immune to the natural laws as well as their own rules and regulations.”

This response riled me, somewhere in his innervated mind this man had decided that he and his disciples were the only ones fit to decide how other people pursued their freedom. Boomtown has in the past been blighted by contamination, disease, and pirates, but none of these things have ever stemmed the yearly flow of revellers to the fair, The Masked Man didn’t seem any more fit to decide their fate than Mayor Jose, so far as I could tell. I’d had enough, so I went in for the kill. “Why didn’t you make a stand and seize power there and then, when you had the upper hand?” I shot. As it turns out, you can absolutely tell if someone’s angry through a mask, even before they speak.

“How many times must I say it before you understand? We do not want to seize power, we want to destabilise power, to make it obsolete.” He repeated, calmly, but in a tone that was not to be fucked with, the kind you almost get frostbite from. “Why would we remain in the target zone to be captured like fish in a barrel? We overran their palace, hacked into their main communications and disappeared before they could even rally their troops, we embarrassed them and disempowered them in front of the entire population, this is the real battle. Why would we fight with those who beneath their uniforms are just the same as everybody else, convenient as it may be to think them monsters, especially when they are capable of acting so, they too are only people, victims of a mental hijack, pawns in a game.”

The TV screen flickered, and the metal roof rattled in the breeze. I took a nervous look back over my shoulder. Something didn’t feel right, some subtle change in the air had set my teeth on edge, and somehow I could tell, even through the screen that my sparring partner had detected it as well, but I thought it better to just carry on. “What’s the endgame here, then? If you’re not after power, what you stand to gain from all this?” The screen went dead for a few seconds. A jolt shot into me, bouncing around inside my ribcage, my skin prickled and my leg muscles tensed, but just as I was ready to bolt for the door, he came back on, and carried on as if nothing had happened.

“Our dream is a world without borders, a time of peace and freedom for all, where the state and its mechanisms are obsolete and we do not need to be led into confrontation and chaos, where we are ruled by our own hearts and minds, not dictated to by greedy tyrants who would call themselves our masters.” “A ‘no state system’?” I mused. “The state by its nature is corrupt,” He continued “It insists we must play our part in it and that it acts in our interests, yet it is willing to betray and destroy anything and anyone that gets in its way as it fights for control of wealth and resources. It fools us with its false gods and fanciful illusions, hypnotises us with our own self-obsessions and pits us against each other in a war of desires. We are tired of these pointless games and cheap rewards; it is time for us to free ourselves from the illusion of the great machine.” He finished, pausing occasionally, as if being spoken to from elsewhere.

For the first time since the interview had begun, I felt like I was actually breaking through, I just had to pick my words carefully. First though, I had to address the one question everyone was looking for an answer to – whether they would be making an appearance at this year’s Fair, but his response was unsettlingly glib. “Who can say? If it is the will of the people then so it will be.” That out of the way, I got back on track. “How do you intend to achieve_” I started, but the image on the other end of the screen had morphed, a black-gloved hand had crept into view, the camera was canted and I could see a microphone at the bottom of the frame. The man himself was gesturing to someone off screen, and then I heard the sound of voices from nearby. He turned his attention back to me. “We must disconnect this channel, you have been tracked, they have followed you here, my comrades will guide you to safety,” He said, muffled by the thumping of my heart. “If you are captured do not resist; we will find you and manifest your liberation. I hope you will prevail and take this message to the world. We will visit you from time to time!”

The screen went dead and before I even had time to react, someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me from the chair. “Eyes down!” was the only command I received before being led outside, so I did as I was told, heavy boots thundering around me. I could hear more cars now, tyres rippling against uneven concrete, shouting, swearing. I kept my gaze firmly on my own feet, and was suddenly violently thrust into the seat of a car. My car, in fact, with someone else at the wheel. “Keep those eyes down, comrade.” I heard, and something about it reassured me. I elected to close them instead, and for what felt like an age, I was subjected to a brutal symphony of swerving and screeching, before finally, mercifully, it all ground to a halt. I fell into the callous grip of the seatbelt as the car shunted to a stop. “Don’t look up until you’re sure we’re gone. Best of luck to you, spread our message.” Was all I heard before a series of thumps and another vanishing engine roar. The moment I was certain they’d gone, I shoved the door open, crawled onto the verge, and threw up everywhere.

A few days later I went back, but all evidence that anything had happened was gone, I don’t know what I was expecting. I haven’t felt at ease since then. There have been no more run ins, but I’m on edge, constantly. I’m not sure what the Masked Man meant when he said they would ‘visit me’, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve become something of an asset, all of a sudden. All I can do in the mean time is spread the message, but rest assured, when the time for the Fair arrives, and regardless of what Jose might say in her increasingly erratic statements, or what Ambrosia Firestorm reports on BTN, I’ll be in Sector 6, waiting for the next stage to reveal itself. If you’re wise, you’ll be there as well. See you in a few weeks… Comrades.