Ode
By: Symbolic Agony
Disclaimer: Disney own Power Rangers unfortunately. That or whatever New Zealand Production team is now in charge of making the show...... damn it give me the old school back!
Author Notes: This is a companion piece to 'Eventually' as it takes Skull's side prior to his death. You don't necessarily have to read Eventually to understand this fic but the two are intended to be linked. Actually in a way this one should have been done first to begin with in my mind, and not just for chronological sake. Why I did this? I always thought Bulk and Skull were such fascinating characters, particularly as they grew up in the third season and Zeo. It was suddenly kinda obvious what role each one really was and how both of them hid from one another what kind of people they really were.
I never really though about it but dying is good for your self esteem.
It's been five years since Bulk left for god knows where in space and now here I am trying to write our story. Maybe if he ever comes back he will read it and maybe understand why I stayed. Of course on second thought old Bulkie is kinda dense. The idea of him reading this book one day is rather incredulous, at least if Bulk is the same guy I know who literally did disappear from the face of the planet.
When you start to die it's funny how your opinion matters so much more than before.
That was why I stayed behind. I hate to say that I outgrew his friendship because it certainly wasn't that at all. But it was time for me to grow up in some ways. I can't imagine that happening with Bulk at all. I still picture him on some strange planet and either saving them by pure accident, or getting the entire spacecraft lynched by innocent bumbling.
Even the most incoherent ramblings matter more than anything you said when you were seventeen.
Bulkie was always funny like that. Hell, both of us were always getting into trouble. Didn't matter if we were looking for it or not, although no matter what it came. Still, as time proved it was more Bulk who instigated much of it. All I did was follow along and emulate.
It no longer matters what happened all those years ago, as reality hits and life isn't so infinite.
Perhaps emulate really isn't the word but more mimic him. I knew more about Bulk than I knew about myself when he left. Actually judging with how this story and this slight rambling is going on it is still a major impression. It's embarrassing being such a sheep. Sometimes I think I am angered about having lived like that and then think about who it should be directed at. Bulk? Myself? All those people who peg-holed me as a punk and a rabble-rouser? I honestly can't say. Fuck it, I'll just blame it on this damn morphine drip. It's probably why the hell I started writing in the first place.
It isn't so much that you matter that everyone suddenly sees themselves in your shoes and it frightens them shitless.
Ah, a little taste of the good old days when I could be as abrasive as I wished to anyone and have no regrets. Now I am about as reckless as an eight month pregnant housewife. And honestly I do think it wasn't getting sick that did it. Once Bulk left I really just mellowed out, and it turned out for the better perhaps. Although it was so fun when the answer to any authority was a hearty "Fuck you!" and a laugh.
Given enough time everyone will die.
I suppose that I should leave my novel off here. I'll give it to Adam tomorrow since he knows more about getting things published than I do. I really don't have a lot more to say but I am finally content with where I am. No longer angry at my illness despite I am on more machines now than ever. It no longer bothers me that I chose to stay behind and that Bulk did go on without me and I never got to say goodbye. Or all the wasted opportunities spent being such an ass to the world no longer come back to nag me. Perhaps I found some sort of western commercialist pig's nirvana.
But now everyone is equal in that way.
Yet still I come up with more to say. Old Paul and Jason keep flowing on the keyboard and reminding me of more memories. It is just too bad I can't explain it to anyone as being more than fiction. I guess it is the final disguise of the idiot I remember in these stories. I will let it end with my own life....... maybe even old dense Bulk will know what I mean.
Paul could have sworn that out of the corner of his eyes as they shut he could see him....... good old Jason standing just beyond his arm's reach, smiling as though reading his thought and telling him "Nice one. You know I hate being left out of a good joke." Just like old times.