The challenge: write a short story in 20 minutes using the following:

Characters: a fiery redhead, Conor McGregor

Genre: family saga

Setting: July 4th barbecue

Trope: a distracting fake fight

POV/tense: 3rd/past

The result:

“Who invited that asshole?” grandma asked.

“Shush, mom,” her son David said. “I think Tina brought him.”

“That no good daughter of yours,” grandma said. “She’s still working at that strip joint?”

“Mother. She’s not a stripper. How could you say that?”

“Well, she sure dresses like one.” Grandma took a drink of her beer and cackled so hard that her dentures slid partway out. She tucked them back in and resumed her laughing.

“Grandma, you can’t talk about women like that,” her grandson Robbie said. “It’s not respectful.

Grandma picked up her Marlboro reds and lit a cigarette. She took a draw and let out a hack. “In my day we didn’t have enough time or money to be dressing so fancy like that. Let alone bringing some random Irish gutter rat slash failed fighter to someone’s family party celebrating the founding of our country.”

She eyed Connor McGregor at the far end of the table, hot dog in one hand, tumbler of whiskey in the other. He caught her stare and he winked.

“Oh lordy,” she muttered.

He got out of his seat and swaggered over her way.

“Uh oh, grandma,” Robbie said. “You’ve done it again. Running your mouth and getting in trouble. He’s liable to punch you now.”

“That lug? He couldn’t land a blow on a drugged rabbit.”

Connor stopped beside grandma. “What’s that you’re saying about a drugged rabbit, missus?”

Grandma took a long drag and blew the smoke in his face. “I saw your last match,” she said. “Pitiful.”

Connor bopped from one leg to another. He cracked his neck and took a giant swig of his whiskey. “Wow. Huh. I always love myself a fiery redhead.”

Grandma patted her hair. “It’s fake, if you haven’t noticed. Much like your pre-match trash talk.”

“You’ve no idea how much work I put into my profession, missus.”

Grandma let out a ringing laugh. “Not much at all from what I’ve seen, you little prancing leprechaun.”

David piped up. “You’ll have to excuse my mother, Mister McGregor. She’s got a bit of dementia.”

Robbie scoffed. “Not likely. Grandma’s sharp as a knife. She’s always been like that. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. She keeps asking me when I’m going to bring my boyfriend around to meet her.”

“Well, when are you?” Connor asked.

Robbie sighed. “I’m not even gay.”

“Not yet,” grandma said. “Once he looks in a mirror, well then the jig’ll be up.”

She laughed even harder. Connor joined in.

“What are you laughing about?” she tells him. “That’s my grandson.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You’re a pussy, McGregor. Just like I suspected.”

“I am not. Look at my ears.”

“Okay, you roided-out mick. You think you’re so tough? See if you can beat me.”

“What? No, missus. I’d never hit a woman.”

“I don’t mean that,” grandma said. “Cornhole.”

So the two of them staggered over to the cornhole boards and they celebrated America in the most wholesome of ways, and despite grandma’s trash talk, Conor McGregor cleaned her clock, and the two foul-mouthed heathens became the best of friends.

And nobody ever figured out who invited him to their family party.