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. Last December, Rickie released his first self published novella called Little Sickos, under the pseudonym Fionnain J McKeon, and in March 2026 he released his anthology under the same named titled ALIVE ALL NIGHT, which can be purchased from Rickie/Fionnain directly by emailing saltedstrings@gmail.com.
GLUTTONY
By Rickie O’Neill
Every morning, no matter how she was feeling, Martina O’Toole would, as Peadar’s primary caregiver, always help him get ready for the day. That means she’ll bathe him, dress him, comb his hair, shave his face, and wipe his butt. Standard practices, just to guarantee his safety and satisfy basic overweight needs. And she’d do it all without much complaint.
Dignity intact.
Careful and thorough.
Because God forbid he ever had a fucking fall.
“In that case. . .” she said. “The man would be toast. Knowing him he’d probably hit his head off’a something and bleed to death. Ha. Can you imagine?”
Oftentimes Martina’s friends will ask. . .“How can you still live with him luv? The man is an unadulterated Ogre when he could be beautiful.”
They’d say it to her face, that “It just doesn’t add up, Martina. The man is a God awful whale. You can do so much better for yourself. So much better.”
Indeed, Martina knew all too well those better things she could be doing with her life. For her, at this stage, too many days had passed. It’s here she would be, stuck in the thick of it, with him. While outside, through the window, she sees all the women she once knew, all those happy people, out walking in groups of two or three.
Or running together.
And she’ll hear the laughter first, so she will, way up the street, getting louder and louder, before she even sees them at all. That stuff can hurt the heart. So, she’ll walk away sometimes. Away from it. Quietly. Or she’ll busy herself about the house with some remedial chore like prepping a fresh frozen meal or cleaning the dishes. Praying to God above the doorbell doesn’t go BING BONG. But. . .sometimes it does.
Sometimes it’s most days.
People and neighbours trying to get in because they want to say hello. Just so they can see, for themselves, the filth and the squalor she so chose to live her life by.
That morning, Peadar (all 400 lbs of him) woke up at exactly 11am. A grotesque human in every capacity, he would lay there for forty minutes, motionless in his own slop, before he can even think about doing anything even remotely strenuous. Sometimes the poor boy will wake up to a leak. Where he’ll find a strange pus-like secretion spilling out from one of his orifices, and the smell of that combined with everything else. . .“The list goes on.” says Martina.
“Sadly though.” she says. “This is not the man I married. The man I married was a strong go-getter. A real protector with aspirations, hopes, and enough dreams in him to beat the band. For years I had wanted to be a part of all that goodness. But now. . .he can’t even wipe his own ass. The man, since the release of his family’s will. . .by the looks of it. . .is trying to eat away some negative feelings. And yeah, I suppose I’m helping him with that. I suppose a part of me just likes to see him happy. Even if it’s just for a while.”
Once out of bed, Peadar will waddle, almost obliviously, over to the en-suite bathroom where he’ll check himself in the mirror, quickly, before sitting down onto his second favourite seat in the house. . .the toilet. After that. . .it’s light stretches. Followed by tablets and ointment that’ll help him with his skin.
“It’s a special cream and tablet combo prescribed by a doctor.” says Martina. “Called No More Sores. To be honest, he’s on a million other things as well but if I started naming them out we’d be here until the end of time. Let’s just not get into it.”
“It gives me more pleasure than masturbating.” said Peadar, one afternoon, tonguing the mayonnaise off the back of a wooden spoon. “Watching those cheese videos. . .” he said. “Where the cheese melts all over the food is, without question, one of my favourite things to do with my free time. It fills my heart and soul with a quiet exhilaration. Unexplainable joy. I dream about it so I do. Every night. I want to be consumed by it. Top to toe. And guess what motherfucker – I ain’t gonna change now.”
Martina, who was in the kitchen cobbling together his next snack, could hear everything he was saying from his lazy armchair in the living room. All of a sudden, she did not know what to do with the knife in her hand. . .make the peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. . .or kill the useless turd she had to call a husband.
“Patience, Martina.” she said to herself. “Prison time will feel far worse than the good, temporary pleasure you’d ever get from killing him. Just make the damn sandwich and sit tight for another while.”
“I’m telling you babe. . .” he said. “I honestly think I love food more than you, which reminds me. . .where in God’s name is my frickin sandwich. I’m starving over here.”
“I’m coming dear. . .Don’t worry.” she said. “I’m on the way.”
At night, when Peadar was asleep in the other room, Martina would lay awake staring at the ceiling wondering what would happen if she just upped and left right then and there.
“If I were to walk out right this second.” she asked herself. “What would the world make of me? . . .Would there be people out looking for me with flames and pitchforks? . . .Looking to take the head clean off my body and put it up on a spike someplace, all because I ran away from something that was pushing me to the edge of my limits.”
All night long, she hears him snoring in the next room. Moaning like a wounded beast. Where every and any breath he takes could well be his last. But. . .as she’ll say herself –
“It never fucking is. The man, even with all his ailments, is an absolute fucking trooper. No matter what he does in life. . .there doesn’t seem to be any stopping him. I suppose. . .” she said. “It’s a good thing really. If this was a parallel universe now, I guess I’d be well happy for him.”
Fast forward to March first.
Storm Mohammed: One of the worst things anyone had ever seen. Everything wet and miserable since the night before when a thick pour came down real hard onto the house and everything else. And yes. . .this thing was a beast. Ferocious. With wind and hailstones and anything else you could think of.
Of course, Martina barely slept through the commotion.
A couple of hours maybe.
If that at all.
That very same morning, shortly after 10am, she hears a familiar moan from Peadar’s bedroom – “Hey sweetheart.” he shouts. “How many hot pockets do we have left? I feel like we’re running low.”
“I think there’s two left.” she said.
“Two? . . .That’s fairly abysmal isn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“You might have to go out and stock me up.”
Martina, shaking her head, poured a teaspoon of instant coffee into a cup.
“Have you seen the weather?” she said.
“The weather? No I haven’t. I’m too busy gaming.”
“There’s a wicked storm happening right now.” she said, eyes slowly filling with tears. “If only you looked out the window for yourself every now and again, you’d see it.”
“Yeah. . .” he replied, half chuckling. “If only things were that easy darling. If only they were that easy. . .Anyways. . .” he said. “While you’re out there, if I gave you a list of what we need, would you sort it all out? Thanks.”
There was a cold silence.
“Babe?” he said.
Then.
“Sure hun. Yes.” she said. “I’ll do that.”
“I’m getting pretty hungry now so if you don’t mind getting out’a here that’d be great. Don’t wanna starve to death over here.”
“No problem honey.” she said, packing items into her handbag. “You stay there and I’ll be right back to you.”
Peadar laughed once, almost stupidly to himself, his two eyes glued to his television screen – while Martina slipped on her coat, shut the door, got into her car and drove away.
Hearing the rumble of the engine outside his window, Peadar sat up a little and pulled back the curtain over his big, distended belly.
“My goodness…” he said, watching her leave. “I hope she comes back soon… I’m so hungry I might actually die.”
The Galway Review 