I met him in the kind of place where truth goes to drink itself unconscious—fluorescent lights, stale coffee, and the low hum of a television permanently tuned to sports news. He didn’t look like a prophet. He didn’t look like a lunatic either. That was the first red flag.

He said he came from Monday, January 19th, 2026.
Next Monday.

Not “the future” in a sci-fi sense. No silver jumpsuit. No glowing portal. Just next Monday—like he took a wrong turn at the calendar and spilled into our timeline with jet lag and a dangerous level of confidence.

“I bent time,” he said calmly, stirring sugar into coffee he didn’t plan to finish. “Space too, technically. But time is the headline.”

I laughed. Everyone laughs at first. That’s how history sneaks up on you—wearing a ridiculous hat and asking for spare change.

Then he dropped the proof.

Not equations. Not blueprints. No quantum chalkboard nonsense.
A betting tip.

“Next Sunday,” he said, “the Bears obliterate the Rams. Not a fluke. Not a squeaker. A statement game. The kind people talk about like they were there when it happened.”

I almost choked. The Bears? Stunning victory? Against that Rams team?

That’s when he smiled. Not smug—resigned. The smile of a man who’s already watched the replays.

“You think I’d risk paradox for a coin flip?” he asked. “This game breaks things. Narratives. Careers. Odds.”

According to him, the sportsbooks panic by halftime. Analysts scramble for new adjectives. Fans experience the five stages of disbelief in under three hours. Twitter (or whatever flaming wreck it becomes by 2026) melts into a screaming digital bonfire.

“This is the cleanest proof I could bring back,” he said. “No wars. No disasters. Just joy. And a little extra cash if people are brave.”

Brave. That’s the word, isn’t it?

Because believing him means accepting that time isn’t a straight line—it’s a badly maintained highway with unauthorized exits and one lunatic who figured out how to drive the wrong way without exploding.

He wouldn’t tell me how it works. Said the math “ruins the romance” and also “gets people killed.” Fair enough.

Before he left, he offered one final thought, the kind that sticks in your ribs:

“History doesn’t change because of big moments. It changes because someone places a bet they shouldn’t have—and wins.”

Then he vanished. Not dramatically. Just stood up, left exact change on the table, and walked out into a present that suddenly felt very temporary.

So here we are. A week away from next Sunday. A week away from either:
  • the most outrageous sports upset in recent memory, or

  • the moment this article becomes performance art of the highest order.


Either way, reality is on the clock.

And somewhere out there, next Monday is waiting.