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Listen to this Article:
Operation Disclosure Official
By James O’Brien, Contributing Writer
Submitted on March 9, 2026
John F. Kennedy, Jr: The Death Of An American Prince
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGphPWJJf2Q
Excerpt from Alias John Titor:
We streamed into the city like blood cells flowing to the atrium of a beating heart.
We were in Junior’s Jeep Wrangler Sahara, but it felt as if we were in the submersible
pod from Innerspace, the Kraken II, designed to take a journey through the human body.
I wanted to ask Junior and Titor about what they’d experienced, but there was a feeling
of reticence in the air and the silence hung heavy. Finally, I had to ask:
“What all did you see?”
There was a long pause, then Junior met my eyes in the rear-view and said:
“The Fall of America.”
“Where did you go?” Janelle continued.
“Palisades Park. 2026,” Titor answered. “Couldn’t risk New York City. It was a
hellscape through the binoculars. The Palisades was an outpost of the Civil War.”
Junior gathered himself, a new strength visible in his steely eyes, and said:
“My life begins this day. What I’ve seen and been through since last we saw each
other, it’s like a hundred lifetimes in one. We made a Plan, John and I, in that future
Apocalypse. A Plan to Save the World.”
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“Yes,“ was all Titor said. This was met by Junior’s request:
“I ask only that she come with me. We have plans for a child. If I’m going into
another reality, I’m not leaving my love behind without giving her a choice to join me.”
Janelle and I were holding a puzzle piece of their Plan. We needed to know more.
Where exactly was Junior going? What did it mean that his wife might go with him?
These thoughts stirred my imagination, as we flowed through traffic into the city at
twilight. It felt like we were in the Twilight of America itself.
Our destination was 20 North Moore Street #9E in Tribeca, Manhattan. It was the
two bedroom loft apartment of Junior and the one we call C. There, we would deliver a
presentation that was at once insane, and yet essential. Janelle and I were in the dark as
to the full Plan to Save the World, but in the meeting everything would be illuminated.
∞ ∞ ∞
The location was a 9-story building, on a dark side street full of abandoned
warehouses, with a single dimly lit street lamp, yet not far from a more populated
thoroughfare with numerous bars and restaurants. Junior opened the door with a key.
The lobby had no doorman, no security, and linoleum floors. Another key was used to
call the industrial elevator, which we rode to the top floor, where it opened to Junior’s
loft. It was a large rectangular space which occupied the entire floor. It had 14-foot
barrel vaulted ceilings with skylights and tilt-and-turn windows. It was well-appointed,
but homey, discreet, as if it was a former bachelor pad recently given a woman’s touch.
The open kitchen was modern and clean, with custom cabinets, and a long counter
separating the space from a large wooden table in the dining room. There was a
handyman about, a Portuguese fellow tending to some business about the place. He
seemed almost like a family member. Junior handed him Friday’s leash and gave him
money, sending him out for supplies and on various errands, a context by which we
could be alone for a few hours and have our talk with C without any distractions.
Junior opened a sub zero refrigerator to get us some sparkling waters. The fridge
was overflowing with fruits and vegetables.
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“That’s from my wife,” he said. “She keeps it healthy. I’d probably still be eating
pizza everyday if it wasn’t for her.”
“The pizza is good here,” Titor replied, with a seriousness that made us all laugh.
We were acting casual, as a coping mechanism for what was sure to follow once C came
back from Saks Fifth Avenue, where she was dress shopping for the upcoming wedding
in Hyannis Port. Junior was a gracious host and gave us a tour of his home, which he
took in as if he was seeing it all anew. There was artwork in the living room that he
showed us, with one photograph standing out, a black-and-white image of African
American convicts in the Deep South dancing in a dusty prison courtyard.
He directed us to a bookcase in a family room, mentioning that he’d majored in
history at Brown. The shelves were filled to the brim with biographies, history books,
and the new journalism of the 60’s and 70’s, like Hunter Thompson and Norman Mailer.
Nearby, in a utility room, there was a pile of athletic equipment: rollerblades and bikes,
tennis rackets and frisbees. Next to it was the guest bedroom.
At the opposite end was the master bedroom, off the living room. It was tidy,
with a queen sized bed, expensive, but not ostentatious. There was little to suggest that
he was from one of the most legendary families in American politics. The impromptu
tour ended. Janelle asked to use a restroom and was directed to one off the family room.
John Titor and I looked at a painting of a ship at sea. Then, Junior continued a
conversation he must have had with John in the other timeline about inorganic beings.
Apparently, there was an encounter with them there, but it was not a negative one.
“Why should they come to seek me or why should I seek them?” Junior asked.
“They are a novelty for us as are we for them. The thing you should keep in mind
is that inorganic beings exert a tremendous pull over dreamers and can transport them
into worlds beyond description. The sorcerers of antiquity used them. And, as Carlos
Castaneda described, these sorcerers coined the term allies. Allies taught the sorcerers to
move their assemblage point into the non-human universe. From there, new realities
were possible, for those with the wherewithal to handle such ventures.”
“Kind of like those who were brave enough in ages past to venture out into the
mystery of the sea in wooden ships,“ I suggested, off the painting.
“Exactly like that,” Titor agreed. “Exactly like those explorers, who knew not
what they’d encounter. In our travels, we go out to sea, yet it’s an interdimensional sea.”
Janelle returned and we all took seats at two mismatched, but very comfortable
couches, connected to each other by a rustic wooden coffee table with a few issues of
Junior’s magazine scattered on it, amongst other periodicals and books. The man they
called the Reluctant Prince, picked up the first issue of his political monthly and said:
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“The debut issue sold 97% of 550,000 copies. It was flush with ad pages. Look at
it, it’s like a phone book. We planned to rival Vanity Fair. I guess we did…” He trailed
off, looking away for a moment, before returning to the thought. “It lost its appeal when
it became all about the money. I was going to give notice after the wedding. I wanted a
new challenge. A new adventure. Be careful what you wish for, right?”
On that note, the elevator opened and C and her lovely sister appeared with Saks
shopping bags. They looked mildly surprised to see us there, but friendly nonetheless.
Junior rose to greet them and we stood up with him.
“Honey, remember our friends from Rao’s the other night…”
C smiled and then feigned a wince, “I only just got over that headache. But it was
worth it. This is my sister Lauren.” We met and shook hands and introduced ourselves.
C then hugged her husband and kissed his cheek.
She produced from a department store bag a short black dress, saying:
“In the boutiques on the third floor, I found this. By Alber Elbaz, a designer for
Yves Saint Laurent.”
“Perfect,” Junior said, with a reflective smile.
“Is something wrong?” C said, sensing a moodiness to the atmosphere.
“I hope we didn’t interrupt your meeting,” Lauren offered graciously.
Lauren was sophisticated, one year older than her sister. She was an Ivy League MBA,
and on the fast-track at Morgan Stanley. She spoke fluent Mandarin, had a twin sister,
and was a champion of those who were struggling. Her distinct profile as a time-travel
operative, Titor later mentioned, was one in a billion.
“No, no, it’s not that at all,” Junior responded. “Please, everyone sit down. We
have something we’d like to… discuss.”
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Junior looked to Titor, “Is it okay that Lauren is a part of this?”
Titor nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Y’know, it makes a kind of sense. You all
might not want to do this alone. Of course, the choice must be up to each individual…
But, three is a magic number. You might note that we arrived as a trio, ourselves.”
We all sat down. C and her sister seemed perplexed as to what this all was about.
Was this some kind of ad sale? They were, however, most polite. John Titor asked that
everyone turn their cell phones off. The atmosphere at once seemed to shift, as if on cue.
It was time to change our new arrivals lives by detailing that which no ordinary
person could ever accept at face value. Which is precisely what we needed them to do.
∞∞∞
Alias John Titor
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DWT4KB4D
Parting the Washington Sea
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B092P78P71
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