The Reluctant Prince

Operation Disclosure Official

By James O’Brien, Contributing Writer
Submitted on October 18, 2025

Excerpt from Alias John Titor:

So, there we were, in the office of the politics-as-lifestyle magazine named after the Very First President, or perhaps after another president, who couldn’t recall his whereabouts on a certain 22nd of November.

The staff shared a floor with two fashion publications and there was no one at reception when we entered. Everyone was milling about on official and semi-official business, with some probably like us, just looking to get a glimpse of the tall, dark haired editor whose office was next to the copying machine.

We seemed like we fit in, so no one waylaid us. We flagged down an associate editor named Manny, who was carrying a case of Diet Coke. When we told him our cover story and inquired about Junior, he asked:

“Did you have an appointment for right now?”

“We were passing through and hoped to catch him,” John Titor explained.

“Think he’s rollerblading in the Park,” Manny replied. “He’s worked for 40 days straight. Needs decompression. He’ll bike to Rao’s later, no doubt. If you’ll excuse me.”

We got out of there on the double. That was the intel we needed and there was no need to hang around looking conspicuous any longer than necessary. We left to check on the Chevy Suburban in the Plaza parking garage, to make sure it was safe and sound, and to arrange for another 48 hours. We had to be at Rao’s later, a ten-table Italian restaurant in East Harlem, across from Thomas Jefferson Park. This restaurant was a den for power brokers. Getting a seat would be next to impossible. But with the right approach, however, we could perhaps order an old fashioned at the bar and then see what might develop.

What developed was something we never could have planned.

But we still had time to k--l, so we went to Central Park and strolled to Bethesda Fountain to enjoy the view of the lake. The fountain sculpture there, Angel of the Waters, was a symbol of our journey. It felt like we were in Bande à part, a band of outsiders, two guys and a girl, conceiving some wild scheme to change our lives. But instead of pulling off a crime, we were trying to change an election and alter history.

Janelle and I were being drawn deep into each other’s inner life. John Titor was, of course, still there, both present and on the periphery. He knew he had to return to 2036 with the IBM. And nothing, not even a girl who had been sent to **** him, but then decided to protect him, and love me, was going to disrupt his supreme and principled focus. Myself, on the other hand, I had to work very hard to stay on mission, because all I wanted was to take Janelle in my arms, forget this whole crazy conspiracy and go live together in Tribeca with her in 1999. Just like Junior and his socialite fashion publicist bride had done. Then again, this very affair of Junior’s was doomed to spiral into the Atlantic if we didn’t do something about it soon.

So, we did something. We went to Rao’s for drinks and dinner.

The restaurant was a red storefront with white lettering. It recalled the red and white exterior of the Whisky, however this locale was much smaller, like a red London phone booth expanded into an Italian joint. We entered as casually as we could muster. The owner was at the bar, in a black blazer, gray slacks, gold bracelet, signet ring, and black velvet smoking slippers, holding a scotch on the rocks, while he conversed with great conviviality around a group of men. He looked like an Italian Peter Lawford.

There was a sense that everyone knew each other. It felt more like a wedding reception than the toughest reservation in the country. There was a juke box along the wall and Christmas lights festooned above the bar. We needed to act like we belonged. Some eyes were on us, to be sure, though there was no reason to ascertain that we’d done anything wrong. We passed a server in a black Rao’s t-shirt, who extended his hand and asked John Titor his name, and if we had a table.

“We’re going to grab some drinks,” Titor said casually. “See if anything opens.”

“We’re all booked,” declared the server.

“We’ll just have a drink at the bar, then,” Janelle said, with such sultry class that the only response could be the one that he gave:

“Be my guest.”

A wall-of-fame of photographs covered the periphery, highlighting celebrities of various eras who’d been patrons of the establishment. An old-timer barkeep, Nicky the Vest, short of stature but most gregarious, was serving Negronis and other cocktails in a red vest and white shirt. We negotiated up the bar, with help from the approving male gazes upon Janelle, to order three old fashioneds. The owner, Frank, saw us and said:

“You look like three new faces. Are you with anyone here?”

“They’re with me,” came a dulcet tone, which parted the patrons.

It was Sariel Kasdaye. He was seated at a wooden booth next to the bar.

“Wonderful, Mr. Kasdaye,” Frank smiled, extending his palm to this choice spot. He then said, with genuine warmth: “Enjoy. Welcome to the family.”

Kasdaye had a spread on a white table cloth, like he was either waiting for us or extremely hungry. There were dishes of seafood salad, penne vodka, rigatoni, baked clams, herb-covered roasted red peppers, garlic broccoli rabe, a dish of meatballs, ossobuco, and a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild. A server appeared with glasses.

“If the lady would kindly sit with me,” Sariel gestured to Janelle. “My repast is your repast, so please tuck in.”

She sat beside him and John and I took our seats across from them, under photos of Frank Sinatra and Frankie Valli. There were a lot of Franks around here, to be frank, but it felt like we were amongst friends. The server poured us some first growth vino, all smoke and spice.

Kasdaye raised his glass, “To my church friends. May we ever meet like this.”

We clinked glasses. I noticed an old, leather bound book that was off to the side, just beyond the domain of the food. Had Kasdaye been reading it before we arrived?

“What have you got there, Sariel?” I inquired. “Looks like some ancient tome.”

“A recent acquisition. I traffic in rare books. It’s a first edition 1560 Geneva Bible. Early Scottish Provenance, with Apocrypha. The notes to the Apocalypse are stridently anti-Papist. For instance, the scarlet woman of Revelation 17:4 is identified as ‘the Antichrist, that is, the Pope with ye whole bodie of his filthie creatures.’ It’s my personal favorite book of scripture.”

We were once again under the spell of this intriguing fellow. I ate as well as I had in ages. Everything was simple, and yet truly delicious. The wine continued to flow. Kasdaye held forth on his favorite topic: “They say there’s enough religion in the world to make men hate each other, but not enough to make them love.”

“Is that Angel Heart?” I asked, as Sariel brought a forkful of ossobuco to his lips.

“No, it’s the veal,” he said, deadpan, as he took a bite.

We broke out in laughter. I sensed, though I could not see, that Kasdaye brought a hand down to the knee of Janelle in the mirth. If he did so, she did not seem to mind. We were at his table, eating his food, drinking his wine.

He brought the subject back to the artists of the Renaissance, proclaiming: “the painters and sculptors of this era were a vanguard who challenged all the conventional ways of perceiving life, time and space, long before the philosophers and theologians ever got around to it. By the time the Church recognized that the earthly, solid and realistic images which appeared on their walls were actually instrumental in bringing down their old traditional order, it was far too late to counter its devastating effect. Materialism had prevailed.”

His eyes gleamed in the restaurant lighting. If the three of us were time-travelers, I had to wonder if he was one, too. His knowledge spanned eras. Perhaps, he was a vampire, if they existed. He had the charm of one, and his health seemed quite vital for a man of his age, though it was not darkness which he projected, but earthy good will. Deep into bottle three, Janelle brought up the subject of reincarnation. Kasdaye was someone you could get answers from, on any arcane or metaphysical subject matter.

“Reincarnation came about because we fell from eternal being into mortal being,” Sariel spoke, pouring her a refill of wine. “So we must die. As such, we couldn’t learn the lessons we need to learn to become beings of service at such a high density without constantly coming back. In a short hundred years, you’re not going to learn enough. So, reincarnation became necessary. But it was a creation by us and by other beings that fell from grace. And fell from their service to the One God, in perpetual immortality. We used to be eternal beings. And we didn’t reincarnate because reincarnation didn’t exist, because we didn’t die. And then we fell from that, through our avarice, our greed, our ego and our pride. And all of the beings incarnating over and over again, reincarnating, are the same ones, again and again, in what you might call soul transmutation. They tried to parse it from the Bible, but it’s actually all over it. In its code.”

He patted his 1560 Geneva Bible, which looked like something from an Indiana Jones movie. We were so ensconced in the conversation, we forgot why we were there. Until he breezed in, having just locked his bike to a pole outside. He wore a blue blazer, a Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, with a green ball cap on backwards, reining in his famously unruly black hair.

We’d found him at last. Or he had found us.

We had crossed an ocean of time to do this.

Yet, there was little left of that precious commodity.

“Look who it is,” Sariel Kasdaye said.

“The Joint is such a haunt.”

∞∞∞

Alias John Titor
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DWT4KB4D

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