Yes, I'm Dead. But you didn't think it would be that easy to get rid of me, did you? A simple syringe and a few rudimentary crosses scrawled on the coffin lid? No one willing to spend a little money for some full cloves of garlic or silver powder? No powdered bones of a Saint or blessed wooden stake of sharpened oak? Bah. I spit upon you, ethereally.

And what's with those psychics, John Edward and Sylvia Browne, anyway? They're supposed to communicate with people who've crossed over. I sit there next to them and give them a detailed message to give to political leaders in this country - and they think I'm someone's older-mother figure who has some connection to an "S" and who has a message about flowers.

Hey, Sylvia, I've a special message from beyond: it has a connection to an "F" and a "U."

Anyway, I didn't pay much attention to what "The Swimmer" was saying - it's hard to make out his mumblings what with the crackling of the flames and the screams of the tormented going on behind me. But all I know is two things. First, if the best Teddy can come up with after two years of investigating is an indictment of some guy named "Scooter," then I doubt anyone on the other side is too worried. Hell, they probably panicked for all of two minutes - until they realized that some secretary can probably call and order Domino's just as easy as he could. Gosh, I just wish I had thought to say I simply didn't recognize Haldeman; it all could have gone different.

And second, Teddy's liver is already here with me, and I'm currently having it with saut�ed onions and a nice Chianti.