I always hated traveling by heavier-than-air craft. The idea of strapping yourself into a 40-ton chunk of flying steel and defying gravity at high speeds for hours at a time seems hazardous. Humans are a weird bunch. If it can be done, no matter how stupid or dangerous it is, they will try it. But here I am, traveling with a pack of them to the locale of my first interview, New Jersey. Its in the stadium for the New York Giants football team I first make contact. Donning a cunning disguise of mental illusion, I asked the whereabouts of my interviewee.

"He ain’t here," insisted John Samerjan, vice president of public affairs for the New Jersey Sports and Exposition Authority, which runs the stadium.

Some say he was in Florida, others in a Los Angeles nightclub, or in the Au Sable near Detroit. But I knew he was here. Who you ask? Only the best-known union honcho of the century.

Jimmy Hoffa.

I knew it was going to be a chore; he was encased in the concrete that made up the Giants' end zone. To keep from being bothered, I convinced the snarky Samerjan I was an FBI investigator. Since I played my role of government agent with a disturbing lack of creativity and humor, he was convinced.

So pulling out my trusty divining rods, I began searching the Astroturf. It was around the uprights my rods nearly spun from my tentacles. He was close. I contemplated using a jackhammer or a low-explosive device to crack the concrete. Cursing my luck, I realized neither was available. Of course, its not that I needed to use the explosives or cement-breaking tool, I just like the noise. So placing the divining rods into my overcoat, I entered a meditative state to summon the spirit of James Riddle Hoffa.

Elvis, as usual, was hanging around. He's not dead, mind you, he's just… Oh, never mind, I’ll tell you later. So, I told Elvis how much I liked his music just to get him to go away, to which he said, "Thank you… Thank you very much," and left. The psychic background was low-key, but powerful. A range of emotions throbbed in the stadium, from happiness to despair. Aggression seemed to be soaked into the field itself, years of competitive spirit leeched into the earth. It was in that realm beyond mortal sight that I found Hoffa. He was in the stands by the 40-yard line, talking with a ghostly concessions vendor. After I explained I was a reporter from "the other side", he seemed quite willing to talk:

Cth'Harvey: Could you state your name for the record?

Jimmy Hoffa: My name's James Riddle Hoffa. But my friends call me Jimmy.

Cth'Harvey: I am pleased to meet you, Jimmy. My real name would test your sanity, but you can call me, Cth'Harvey.

Jimmy Hoffa: Ah, yeah… <<looks at me suspiciously>> So, what can I do for you?

Cth'Harvey: There are many people out there, both living and "existence-challenged" who would like to know more about you, Jimmy.

Jimmy Hoffa: "Existence-challenged"?

Cth'Harvey: Dead.

Jimmy Hoffa: Seems kinda stupid to use that big, long word instead of just saying, "dead".

Cth'Harvey: Welcome to the US culture of the new millennium, Jimmy. The language is sanitized to keep from possibly offending anyone, even by accident.

Jimmy Hoffa: How does anyone carry on a conversation?

Cth'Harvey: Just like hedgehogs making love, Jimmy. VERY carefully. So, tell me, what has your time here in Giants’ stadium been like?

Jimmy Hoffa: Real good in the football season. Boring as hell the rest of the time. I can't seem to leave this place, though. So, I talk with all the others around here, like Davey. <<jerks his thumb at the ghostly concessions man who hawks his wares to an empty stadium>>

Cth'Harvey: Are there a lot of others like Davey here?

Jimmy Hoffa: You mean, "Existence-challenged"? Okay, I gotcha. Yeah, we got others. A couple dozen or so, running different shifts.

Cth'Harvey: Shifts? You mean they work even after they're dead?

Jimmy Hoffa: Hey, before I got here, these guys were just wandering around! See, lots of guys don't KNOW they're dead. They keep going on like they were breathing, not pushing up daisies. So, I do what I do best. I organized ‘em. Now, they got direction. They keep doing their jobs best they can, and recruit new guys and gals to the UTO Local 01.

Cth'Harvey: UTO?

Jimmy Hoffa: Unliving Teamsters Organization. It's the union I built to help the common guy in the afterlife. But I tell the members it stands for United Teamsters Organization.

Cth'Harvey: Undead Teamsters, why am I not surprised? Gives completely new meaning to the phrase, "No rest for the wicked." So, what benefits do they get from being in your union?

Jimmy Hoffa: The union works to give them time off to see and go watch over their families. We contract with supernatural entities to make sure my people get good treatment, no hassling from hostile ghosts. And, efforts are made to get spirit mediums so that our workers get a chance to contact their families.

Cth'Harvey: Do you ever have any spirits that don't want to be a part of your union?

Jimmy Hoffa: Yeah, but they come around to our way of thinking after I explain it to them. <<glances over my shoulder and nods, behind me is a wraith of fearful countenance, popping its vaporous knuckles>>

Cth'Harvey: I see… So, do you ever visit your family?

Jimmy Hoffa: The UTO is growing bigger all the time, so it keeps me busy. But yeah, I go and visit ‘em. Sure do miss them, but James is a good boy. I know he's taking good care of my family.

Cth'Harvey: James?

Jimmy Hoffa: James P. Hoffa, Jr., my son. <<beams with pride>> He's the President of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters now. He ain’t as rough and tumble as his old man, but still a tough cookie. I wish I could tell him how proud I was of him…

Cth'Harvey: If this gets published, Jimmy. I’ll make sure he finds out.

Jimmy Hoffa: Thanks, Cth'Harvey. You're a good guy.

Cth'Harvey: No problem Jimmy. I may not be "good" by any recognizable moral code or a "guy" in any human sense, but I appreciate the compliment nevertheless.

Jimmy Hoffa: Yeah, okay. <<looks at me oddly and chuckles>>

Cth'Harvey: This may be a difficult topic for you, but perhaps you can share it with us. How exactly did you die, Jimmy?

Jimmy Hoffa: It's a bit fuzzy, but I remember being wrapped up and stuck in the trunk. Then they brought me here and buried me in concrete.

Cth'Harvey: You have my condolences. Is there anything else you'd like to tell the readers?

Jimmy Hoffa: Never give up! Did I give up? Heck, I got whacked, and I'm STILL running a union. Maybe I've done some questionable things, but I did it for the Teamsters. And until God gives me eternal rest, I’ll keep working to make the afterlife better for the average joe.

Cth'Harvey: Thank you very much for your time, Jimmy. And I wish you good fortune with the UTO.

Jimmy Hoffa: Thanks, Cth'Harvey. Good luck to you too.