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 first anthology under the same name titled ALIVE ALL NIGHT, which can be purchased from Rickie/Fionnain directly by emailing saltedstrings@gmail.com.
QUICKIE KANE
By Rickie O’Neill
It was the first day of summer.
Twelve noon.
For the past three hours, Heather Kane had been sat in her favourite bar ‘The Big Spill’ and was swallowing cocktails, among other things, like they were going out of fashion. The day previous, she had been working the longer shift, starting at the bell of midnight and finishing just around whenever the sun came up. It varied often, the schedules. No two timetables were ever the same and that was a big reason why she had liked the job.
On a good night, Heather reckoned she could get through about twelve to sixteen clients. “Maybe more than that,” she says, “if a certain few couldn’t hold it in.”
“My God.” she told her mother once. “If I got a medal for every time a man couldn’t hold it in. . .for every man that blew his top early coz I was that good. . .I reckon I’d own all the gold in the world. . .or at least most of it.”
She loved to visit her mother in the cemetery every morning after work. It brought her peace. . .right before she went off and did it all again. There she’d sit, Heather, with her legs twined beside the gravestone, talking out loud and nodding her head, hearing voices talk back, seeing things, and of course none of this was real, none of it at all, but in her mind it was, it was very real, and for the sake of sanity she’d make sure to hold onto it.
Back in The Big Spill, Heather, drunk now, was slumped over the bar like a demonstration dummy. Laughing and talking to herself, she’d confuse the few folks around her (plenty of strange looks) while the barman checked his watch, again and again, wondering at what point he should cut her off.
“Who’s the broad?” asked a much older man with leathery skin, and him pointing.
The barman was busy now. . .cleaning glasses and putting them back, cleaning glasses and putting them back. Talking quietly out’a the side of his mouth, he said to the old man –
“That’s the town’s only working hooker. And guess what. . .?”
“What?”
“She does this every day.”
“Every day?” the old man asked, and he stumbled slightly with his pint of whiskey.
“Every. Single. Day.”
“Oh.”
“They call her Quickie Kane.”
“Quickie Kane. . .” he said. “Now that’s funny.”
“But for me. . .” said the barman.
“Yeah?”
“She’ll always be Heavenly Heather.”
The old man laughed once to himself then sank the rest of his drink down in one easy go. After that he let out a big sigh. A real big one. One so loud and obnoxious it almost looked staged. Like it were a gag or something. Or a prank.
“I’ll have more of that.” he said, setting down his empty. “And keep them coming.”
Watching Heather from behind, the man slowly shimmied up beside her, saying to himself: “I think I just made a new best friend. How about that.”
Next thing he tapped her on the shoulder (her tattooed shoulder), prodding his two thick and greasy fingers so deep into her sallow skin it was almost painful.
“What the. . .?”
“Well hello there, beautiful.” he said, cheekily offering his hand: “My name is Otto.”
The awkward greeting hung in the air like a bad death during the time it took Heather to recalibrate her eyes to what was going on. The poor woman had been caught off guard and nicely so by this strange amigo. Like any good hooker worth her salt, she had to first get her bearings on the place. Figure out where the hell she was and what was about to go down.
And seconds later. . .when she finally managed to do it. . .when this brazen blurry figure of a man, whatever his name was, finally came into focus, all she could say was –
“Jesus Christ dude. . .How yellow are your teeth?”
The Galway Review 