Rickie O’Neill is a 35 year old writer, actor, director and musician originally from Claremorris, Mayo, currently residing in Galway. For the past 13 years, Rickie has been a session musician and full-time drummer for the Irish band The Saw Doctors. In 2015 he changed his course slightly and began writing, starting off with short film scripts and poetry (which he still enjoys writing very much to this day). In 2017 he took a keen interest in the short story form and was particularly impacted by how powerful a short story can be as opposed to a long-drawn-out novel. Plus, you finish them quicker. Rickie’s writing influences include Anton Checkov, Roald Dahl, George Saunders, Lafcadio Hearn, Chuck Palahniuk, Anthony Bourdain, Mike McCormack & Donal Ryan. Rickie recently released his first self pullshed novella called Little Sickos, under the pseudonym Fionnain J McKeon. And as of last Friday has released his anthology under the same named titled ALIVE ALL NIGHT, which can be purchased from Rickie/Fionnain directly by emailing saltedstrings@gmail.com.
FOOT BRAIN
By Rickie O’Neill
Through shit covered back-streets and alleyways, Foot Brain Murray walks alone, hoping to one day find the everlasting cure to his filthy foot brainy ailments.
Tumbling through the streets, kicking over cans and stepping in steamy dog poop, Foot Brain says to himself – “I can’t believe I am almost forty years of age and still, I have this God damn foot for a fucking brain. It’s an absolute outrage.”
The last time he got a medical scan done for himself, the doctors told Foot Brain that the foot inside his head was of perfect bone structure and even had its nails painted and everything.
“All different colours.” they said. “Pink, red, blue, teal, orange and black. You name it.” they said. “The foot inside your head has it.”
They said each one of them too was very beautiful. . .in their own right of course. Talking over one another and marking their sterilised clipboards, the doctors said it wasn’t uncommon “at all, at all, at all” for the next nail in line to be way more stunning and eccentric than the one previous. For them, as medical professionals, and after all those years of study – they’d say it was just
“Standard nail behaviour.”
For the past two and a half decades, in pursuit of personal peace, Foot Brain Murray would do almost every half logical thing he could possibly think of in order to get himself better. His mother Doris didn’t have a foot for a brain – at least that’s what she told people. She was a lovely occupational therapist with giant sagging boobs, a bit of a temper, and a regular sized woman’s brain.
Dimitri, Foot’s father – although he left and died early – apparently had the same thing going on in his own head too. A regular sized human brain. Fit for a man.
Only thing was, he didn’t know how to use it.
“Biologically and genetically, I shouldn’t have a foot inside my head at all.” said Foot one afternoon to a pigeon in the park. “Genetically it doesn’t make sense. Mam and Dad were kind’a half normal people with regular gooey human brains.” He said “They didn’t carry around a third extra foot with them all their lives. Honestly, I don’t think I’d mind if this foot of mine was identifiable at least. I’d have so much more comfort in my life if that were the case. If that dreadful foot in my head were not in my head but rather attached to one of my other two feet. That would be so much better. That way, people would know I am suffering.”
When the pigeon flew away, Foot himself would move on, walking and talking to himself, utterly directionless, until it got dark.
“Look at that woman over.” he’d say at one point, after spotting a woman over there. “I bet her life is oh so good. I bet she doesn’t have a foot for a brain. Hey Madame.” he shouted. “Do you have a foot for a brain like I do?”
“No.” said the woman, a beautiful, elegant thing. “I don’t.”
“Yeah I didn’t think so.”
“But. . .” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“I do have a woefully big shlong between my legs if that’s any good to you?”
“Thanks.” said Foot. “I really appreciate whatever sinister thing you are offering. But honestly, I can get loads of hearty entertainment out of my own shlong. Funnily enough.” he said. “That’s exactly where I’m going right now and I can hardly wait. You go now.” he said. “And have a blessed evening.”
In this life, Foot Brain Murray wasn’t a poor person and he wasn’t a homeless person. In a lot of respects, Foot Brain had every single thing a regular normal person would have. The only qualm really was his brain.
And that it didn’t actually exist.
Here’s a thing that made all the decisions in life, the thing that essentially ran everything, sadly – was a dumb frickin foot.
For an untraceable amount of time, Foot Brain has lived quietly on the north side of town. In a small apartment in a small complex. One suitable for one body and one body only.
“It’s basic.” he says. “Real basic. But I like it.”
And to generate an income, Foot will go home each night and after he has finished his dinner he’ll strip off all his clothes, wash his full body, dry himself and wax his feet thoroughly only because it’s real important they look super duper nice for the shoot.
“These horny old men online.” he says. “My fans. They pay me well for what I do. They just love these raunchy images of my feet. They crave them.” He says “I am making serious money. And it is all thanks to these crazy, sexually addicted people.” Foot says “If it wasn’t for them, these perverts. . .if fetishes weren’t a thing, I reckon I would have died long ago. Actually no, I’m certain of it. Me and my stupid foot brain would be gone for good. Six feet underground we’d be and nothing to show for it. Thankfully though.” he says. “And I have seen the metrics, this is NOT the case. From the information I’ve gathered and the money I’ve made, the fetish business is absolutely thriving and is showing no signs whatsoever of slowing down. I’m just glad I spotted it on time.” he says. “Because, amid all of my shortcomings, I am thoroughly aware of how beautiful my feet are. I must say I am very proud of them.”
During one of the nights, and at no particular time, an assortment of flyers were erected around the town by some unknown identity. And these were no normal flyers.
No, no.
These were big, fat, arrogant things. Like something a politician would invest in during the run up to an important election. Their purpose? To spread the word of Mr. Foot Brain (this all too regular looking guy from the North side) who apparently had an all too tragic life and was in dire need of some immediate professional help.
IMMEDIATLY.
The following morning, as people went to work in their nice suits and easy to access skirts, all they saw everywhere were these high erected pictures of Mr. Foot Brain, this very normal looking human being with a real bold statement written below his giant printed face saying that he needed Immediate Professional Help because he had a nail painted foot for an operations manager inside his head and in these life and times, that simply wasn’t good enough.
Some people would stop to look at the flyers. To read them. At least sixty people – between men, children and women. While many more just kept on about their day. . .showing no interest whatsoever. On they’d go, trudging through the unfair void with their shoulders haunched and head down; far too too busy to be acknowledging someone else’s affliction when they had plenty of their own stuff dragging after them. “Anyways. “said an old man. “How the hell did he get picked to be up there? What makes him so special?” He says “If the guy up there really says he has a foot for a brain, then why doesn’t he just join the damn circus or something?”
“I’m just wondering.” said a kid boy next to the old man. “How come he doesn’t look like a retarded person? I mean, if all this is true, and this guy does indeed have a foot inside his head where his brain should be, how does he not look a little more stupid than he does?”
“Yes.” said an older woman, carrying grocery bags. “Now that you mention it. I must say he does look rather normal doesn’t he? Almost to the point where you’d think there was nothing wrong with him at all.”
“If anything.” says the kid. “To my eyes, that whole thing up there could read as something totally different. Something almost positive. And I would absolutely buy into it. Anyways.” he says, jumping onto his bmx. “I need to get the heck out’a here. See you around old timer.”
One dark night many days later, and on a real dark street – Foot Brain stood for hours on end in thick waterproof overalls looking up at these grotesque pictures of himself. And the more he looked up at these pictures the more the rain got into his eyes. But that wasn’t what bothered him. No. It was the sudden arrival of this new campaign with his likeness splattered all over it. In his forty years of living, Foot had never seen his head amplified like that before. To such a ginormous and unflattering size.
“Sheesh.” he said, wiping the pissing wet rain from his chin. “I don’t look like that do I?” Stepping a little closer to the flyer and squinting his eyes up a bit, he said “I look kind’a normal if you ask me. So normal that the lay-person might think there is actually nothing wrong with me whatsoever.”
Stepping in just a little more and squinting his eyes up til they were almost closed, Foot said “I could almost pass for a commercial pilot or something I look so average.” Pointing upward, he said “The way my head is there. And the way my hair looks. . .my smile. . .everything.” . .he says “I come across as kind’a plain. Or decent even. Looking at these pictures, I can see the calm and gentle aura exuding from my eyes. Like I’d be the type of fella you could leave your kid child with while you ran into the shop to get tuna steaks and cream.” And then he said “But how wrong you’d be. Not with this stinky foot inside my head. Yeah.” he said. “If only.”
That evening, when he arrived home without any recognition or interference from the public, Foot would set it all straight for once and for all by doing just the thing you’d expect a man with a foot for a brain to do. Tonight, he was going to take into his hands the only pair of scissors he had.
“TONIGHT.” he said. “I’M GOING TO TAKE THESE HERE SCISSORS INTO MY HANDS.”
And he was going to cut all of his dangly brown hair up until it was short. Like, real short.
“AND I’M GOING TO CUT ALL OF MY DANGLY BROWN HAIR UP UNTIL IT IS SHORT. LIKE, REAL SHORT.”
Soon afterwards, when it came time to address the dreaded foliage on his face. . .Foot said “THIS AIN’T NO BEARD. Who do I think I’m even kidding calling it that? IT IS PATHETIC.”
So he blazed it all off with an electric razor, and kept going.
Going and going.
Chomping at nothing and bleeding through the cracks of his fingers until the razor died.
“Now.” he said. “That’ll show them. After this, nobody’ll know which way is up.”
In all black clothing, Foot would go out into the streets, into different shops, looking to purchase newer versions of the clothes he already had on.
“Just incase.”
Like a woman, he’d be there, scouring about the shelves and the rails, searching for anything that was in the realm of black, dark blue and navy. Thrashing around, aisle to aisle, with the madness of a man living through his last day on earth. Stocking up on as many pairs of cheap socks as he could, half price shoes and sweaters –
“JUST INCASE”
and not letting up until all the money he had was gone.
After that, he would pluck out his eyebrows.
Give in to the sun bed.
Pierce both nipples.
And file his manly toenails down, way way down, to an almost sweet perfection until they looked just like the feet of a woman only because
“The work. .”he says. “Needed it.”
Looking at this new and deranged version of himself in the mirror, Foot Brain Murray would laugh one small tear out of his eye and say “Well I guess this is who I am now.”
Turning his head this way and that, and pouting he says “Not quite the picture I had in my head but it will do I guess.”
He says “I’ll give it a C+, and not an ounce more.” He says “Sure, it’s far from perfect. After all, that thing is still inside’a there. Wreaking havoc on everything. But this right here.” he says, pointing a finger at his reflection. “This new creation. This is the NEW ME now. And if I can get it right. .
“Nobody ever has to know.”
The Galway Review 