A man with a $200 computer took down a $72-million empire—one phone call at a time.
In 1985, Edward Johnson sat in his small Atlanta apartment, watching televangelist Jerry Falwell on the screen.
“Pick up the phone, friend. Call now.”

The toll-free number flashed across the television. Millions of viewers called that number every year, and their donations had built Falwell’s Old Time Gospel Hour into a fundraising machine bringing in more than $72 million annually.
But Edward wasn’t reaching for his wallet. He was reaching for something else.
His elderly mother had been sending Falwell money she couldn’t afford. Money meant for groceries. Money meant for bills. She believed every word the preacher said. And it ate at Edward every single day.
“She trusted him,” he would later say. “And I believed that trust was being exploited.”
Edward wasn’t a hacker. He wasn’t a programmer by trade. He was just a 46-year-old computer consultant with an Atari 800 home computer and a phone line.
But he understood something most viewers didn’t: toll-free calls aren’t free for the organization receiving them. Every time someone dialed that number, Falwell’s ministry paid for it.
So Edward wrote a simple program. Just a few lines of code that would do one thing:
Dial the toll-free number. Wait until someone answered. Hang up. Pause thirty seconds. Repeat.
Forever.
When he clicked “Run,” his modem crackled to life.
“Old Time Gospel Hour, how may we help you—”
Silence. Then a click.
Thirty seconds later: the same thing. And again. And again.
Two calls per minute. One hundred twenty per hour. Nearly three thousand per day.
At first, Falwell’s operators thought it was a glitch. Then they realized it wasn’t stopping. The same number, calling around the clock, seven days a week. The lines jammed. Real callers couldn’t get through.
The phone bills started climbing. Ten thousand dollars. Fifty thousand. The total would eventually reach somewhere between $500,000 and $750,000—depending on which source you believe.
As word spread about what was happening, others joined in. LGBT activists, furious at Falwell’s public campaigns against gay rights, began organizing their own calling campaigns. At one point, prank calls made up an estimated 25 percent of all incoming traffic.
But nobody matched the relentless precision of Edward’s Atari. It didn’t sleep. It didn’t get tired. It just kept dialing.
Eventually, AT&T technicians traced the source. On December 17, 1985, they narrowed it down to the Atlanta area code. Within thirty minutes, they had Edward’s address.
A Southern Bell representative gave him a choice: stop calling, or lose your phone service.
Edward pressed a single key.
The screen went dark.
After eight months, the automated siege was over.
Falwell was furious. His spokespeople called the attacks “unlawful activities” that caused “injury to the cause of Christ.” They considered lawsuits.
But here’s the thing: nothing Edward did was clearly illegal at the time. He didn’t hack into any system. He didn’t steal any data. He just called a public phone number—thousands of times.
In 1986, facing mounting losses and operational chaos, Falwell made a drastic decision: he disconnected the toll-free prayer lines entirely.
The very tool that had helped build his empire had become too expensive and too vulnerable to maintain.
Edward Johnson never became famous for what he did. He never sought publicity or profit. When asked about it, he was matter-of-fact.
One journalist reported that toward the end, operators would answer the dead line and say: “Edward Johnson, is that you?”
He had become a ghost in their system.
Today, cybersecurity experts recognize his campaign as one of the earliest recorded denial-of-service attacks in history—years before the internet made such tactics famous.
Edward discovered something that still holds true: any system built on openness can be overwhelmed if someone is patient enough and persistent enough.
His Atari computer is long obsolete now. But the lesson it taught remains:
Sometimes the smallest weapon, wielded with enough determination, can change everything.