Published: 2025-08-24

The telephone on John’s night table rang. Sound waves ricocheted and bounced from one wall to another. To John, who, after a night of drinking, had been in bed only for a couple of hours, it was maddening. The plans of the insistent caller didn’t include giving up; no sooner than the telephone would stop ringing, a new call would be placed, and the ringing would start again. John fought as hard as he could, but a pillow over his head would not do the trick. Finally, he picked it up.

“What?” John said.
“John, we don’t have time to lose. I know you have a hangover and have barely slept, but this is important. It’s the only thing that matters. Now, I need you to take those clothes off the chair at the right side of the bed and put them on. Then I need you to go to the following address and wait for me to call. There’s a phone booth there, and I know the number. I’ll call you. Now, let’s get the stupid questions out of the way. You are thinking, ‘What is this all about?’ Something terribly is going to happen, and only you can avert it. ‘Is this a prank?’ No, it’s not. ‘You don’t even know me.’ Yes, I do. Social security number 000-312-5764; your mother is Elisa Smith, and your father John Riviera; since you don’t like being called Johnny I didn’t bother in doing so; you have four stitches in your left foot from the time you stepped on a broken bottle when you were nine years old; you also liked Susie Frye in second grade but you never told anyone. No, I’m not a stalker. That should answer all your questions. Oh, wait, you have one more. ‘Who are you?’ Haven’t you figured it out yet, idiot? I’m you from the future, and this is not the first time we've gone through this. Now, stop wasting our time and do as I say. The address is February 27th and Abraham Lincoln Ave. You have 21 minutes, and you're gonna need all of them.”

The man hung up.

John wasn’t sure of what was happening. The future? Only he could stop something terrible? That sounded ridiculous, and yet, the caller knew everything about him, even his most private thoughts, which he never told anyone. Who could it be besides himself calling? John looked at the alarm in the night table, it was 9:37. He put his clothes on, and was on his one.

It was twenty minutes to February 27th and Abraham Lincoln Ave. in a taxi; he wouldn’t be able to make it, thus he ran. If he could run to the subway station, he could shave off ten minutes by avoiding the city traffic. The station was three blocks away. Less thinking and more running. It was 9:40.

John arrived to the subway station, and sweat dripped from his forehead and armpits. The line to buy a ticket was long; John knew what he had to do. He ran again. Ran past the security guards and into the platform. A train was coming. The only option was to keep running, wait for the train to open the doors, and get in as quick as possible. Security guards chased him. Losing them was the next priority.

As soon as the train opened its doors John ran inside. People entered and exited the train, shoving each other, and looking busy. The guards could not follow John; he was save. It was 9:42.

The train doors opened. “February 27th and Abraham Lincoln Ave.” The announcer said. John ran. After climbing the stairs, a phone booth waited for him. It was ringing. It was 9:53.

John picked up the phone, “What?” He said.
“Nice job, John. Now, here’s what you're gonna do. See that —”
“No.” John interrupted. “I did what you asked, now it’s time for you to answer some questions.”
“Boy. I’m insufferable.”
“What is this bad thing that is gonna happen? I got to know.”
“John, listen to me. Do you remember how sad we were when Dad died?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t… Just listen. Some things are inevitable. Nobody could have saved Dad. I see it now, and I tried before. But this John, we can do it.”

He paused for a moment, and his voice started trembling.

“The city is gonna burn, John. Mom is gonna die. Not only Mom. Children, women, the elderly… They’re gonna ravage everything. Thousands, millions of people are gonna die, John. That’s the future I live in, John, but we can change it.”

John listened attentively; he didn’t know what this person was talking about, but he believed it.

“What do you want me to do?” John said.
“See that red Mustang parked at the other side of the street?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“There’s a man inside it. He has his right hand in the ignition and his left hand on the wheel. It’s like he’s ready to go, and yet, he’s waiting for something.”
“What do we do?”
“You have to kill him.”
“What?”
“It’s the only way.”
“I’m not killing anyone. I’m not a murderer.”
“Listen, John. Listen. A bank robbery is taking place at the Santa Mónica bank at this moment. One of the people involved is the son of a senator. The police will shoot while he tries to get into the car. His father will make him a martyr, start pulling strings, reform the police, you see? This will divide the people; they will protest against nepotism, and things will turn ugly real quick. Police brutality, vandalism, political persecution… The city is gonna burn, John, please.”
“I… I can’t.”

A man runs towards the red Mustang. Gunshots. The man falls to the ground. A pool of blood forms under him. It was 9:58

“What have you done, John? What have you done?” Said the man at the other side of the speaker while crying.

The telephone on John’s night table rang. Sound waves ricocheted and bounced from one wall to another. To John, who, after a night of drinking, had been in bed only for a couple of hours, it was maddening. The plans of the insistent caller didn’t include giving up; no sooner than the telephone would stop ringing, a new call would be placed, and the ringing would start again. John fought as hard as he could, but a pillow over his head would not do the trick. Finally, he picked it up.

“What?” John said.

THE END.