Tells Hunched Cornish where he can stick it
My name is Jack Step.
I’m one of the key reporters for the section of Kyiv Unedited called Kyiv Commix. I don’t know where some people get the notion that this section is filled with fantasy and fiction, but, as they like to say around here, that’s their problem. Because everything I write is fact.
I’ve heard I’m depicted as a fictional detective-like writer in Kyiv in a story by one Saint Stephan on his website – which is filled, as I understand, with a bunch of tripe and twaddle which this Saint character considers writing – and not just writing, but good writing. Yeah, well and if that’s the case, except for some fucking “Clown” story he wrote, why isn’t he published anywhere outside his own website?
Can Saint Stephan answer that? Of course he can’t. Nor will he, unless I drag him out of the website he’s hiding in, which I have yet to find.
And I have some additional news for the Saint: poetry isn’t writing, and as far as I’m concerned, I’d as soon wipe my ass with it as read it – except using poetry to do it with would be an insult to my ass.
Though Jack Step will admit, he does like the Saint’s book reviews, maybe because they’re close to Step’s heart as non-fiction writing, the way Jack Step writes for the Kyiv Commix section of this website – the only writing worth doing.
In his fictional account of me, called “A Time to Hate”, this Saint fuck has me writing poetry, mostly bad poetry, even worse than his, knocked off in a spontaneous free verse – written or spoken, it’s not clear – like I’m some kind of inspired, alcoholic hack careening from bar to bar with my notebooks, scrolls and sheaves scribbling drunken versified drivel.
I’ll admit I like my whisky now and again; that I’ve got a bottle or two here in the bottom drawer of my desk – and what of it?
And then the Saint prick, he’s got me all gushy after this little big-titted Baby Doll broad, and then, get this, I lose her to Hemingway, who proceeds to kill me, on the broad window ledge of a bar; to bash and pulverize my face to fragments, to dust and pulp and mush, with his huge canned-ham fists, laughing as he does it – allegorical at the same time as it’s supposed to be real, as the Saint sets Hemingway up as my rival and then shows how I’m overmatched by his inexorable writer’s power.
So let me tell you something. Anytime, anywhere Hemingway wants to go toe to toe with Jack Step – after a couple of drinks, before a couple of drinks; it makes no difference to Step – he’s more than welcome to try. Because if that delusional, pathological liar (though not sociopath, like The Ferret or Welsh Losser) and one-trick pony shows his booze-soused mug around here, or if I find him – anywhere – a bar, the post office, a church, where he’s maybe praying for grace, it’ll be the last prayer, I assure you, he ever says.
Which brings me, that is, Jack Step, to one Hunched Cornish.
Here I am, filing my stories at Kyiv Commix, doing my job the best I know how, putting in a day’s work, punching the card in, punching it out, and this Hunched Cornish, whom I’ve heard little about but knew was relegated to food reviews in the less prestigious Checkout section of this website, suddenly wants to pick a fight with me. So he wants to start something.
Reading this Cornish’s crappy Shangri-La and Monsieur Olivier reviews in The Checkout, where he should just be doing his job and keeping his fat fucking trap shut, but where, for no reason, he agonistically mentions me in each review, like he’s got a loser ax to grind or some chip on his deformed Quasimodoesque shoulders – so it seems he wants to square things, so that they stand fairer, or to even the score, or put me in my place, or show he’s better than me – well, okay, then, Mr. Cornish; why don’t you just come on along into this section of the website, if you’ve got the guts, and let’s see what you can do.
And if you suddenly decide you’re too busy shoving food at the company’s expense down your bloated gullet to bother, then how about this – I’ll come the fuck over there, right into The Checkout section of Kyiv Unedited, and save you the trouble. How would you like that?
You say you want to address and settle the difference between us?
Anytime, Cornish, anywhere – I’ll settle anything you want to settle. So Jack Step has a word of advice for you: don’t go around town making like you were just vomited out of Satan’s maw, because if you think you know, or that you are evil, believe Jack Step when he tells you, you don’t know evil until you’ve faced Step.
So come on, Cornish; what will it be?
Filed by Jack Step, February 20, 2013