By Brent Lillie, Ben Lillie, and Dean Lillie
“I don’t know why we fucking bother,” Jeff said, twisting the top off his second beer. “Sport these days is so full of drugs it takes all the excitement out of it.”
His mate, Bob, gave a disdainful shake of his head at the tele. “You’re right. I don’t reckon they’ll ever weed out all these cheating pricks.”
Jeff turned toward his mate. “Hey, remember when we went back in time in that machine of yours and told Donald Bradman that Hollies was going to bowl him a googly?”
‘Fucking oath. The Don hit a four and got his hundred average.” Bob gave Jeff a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”
“Can we go forward in time? I want to see if the Olympics cleaned up it’s act. Maybe fifty years from now?”
“Great idea, mate.” Bob jerked a thumb towards the garage. “Come on, I’ve been waiting for a reason to give it another test run.”
Bob had managed to pick up a used flux capacitor and a brand new rubber chicken from some Chinese sellers on ebay and carry out a few upgrades. Originally, Jeff had to man the controls in the garage but now everything ran using some computer board he ordered from Shenzhen for a few bucks.
Bob plugged in the time machine, flicked on the wall switch then double-checked the rubber chicken.
“Do you have to twist a time selector dial or something?” Jeff enquired.
“Fuck mate, haven’t you heard of Bluetooth?” Bob snobbishly waved his mobile phone in front of Jeff’s face “It even has voice control!”
“Okay Mister Musk,” Bob said into his phone. “Summer Olympics, 2032!”
They materialised in the middle of a tunnel network full of pipes containing a brown-gold liquid. There was an almighty roar from above. “Nice going,” Jeff exclaimed. He looked around a little dubiously. “How do we get back?”
“I did a little bit of amateur rocketry last arvo. The satellite is still in orbit. I’ve set the timer to take us home in two hours.”
They wandered the tunnels, following the flow of the pipes, eventually reaching an opening, with the pipes leading to the roaring sounds above.
“Is this stuff some kind of futuristic fuel source? Maybe we should siphon some of this shit for study or something, we could be millionaires, Jeff!”
Bob reached at a valve and twisted the knob, causing the mystery liquid to dribble out. “This smells awfully familiar...”
With some hesitation he let a drop land on his finger and held it to his nose. “It’s beer.”
After a few heavy slurps and a refill, they made it out of the tunnel and parked themselves in a couple of spare seats. Jeff found a discarded programme at his feet.
“Shit, we’re in North Korea. I thought this place would’ve been nuked by now.”
Just then, an announcement boomed out of the PA system.
‘Crack and Field events will re-commence in one hour. We are about to see the final of the 100 metre race featuring the current world record holder in lane six. Participants will be tested for Meth.’
“Did he just say Crack and Field, Jeff?”
‘Participants who are not under the influence will be summarily executed.’
“Holy shit!” Bob exclaimed in shock. “This is going to be fucking awesome!”
There was a bloke holding a kangaroo soft toy in the seat in front of him. Bob tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey mate, are you an Aussie?”
“No, I just like kangaroos.”
“Is everyone down there really on meth?”
“Just today. Tomorrow it’s Heroin Shooting.”
“Does anyone here compete who’s not on drugs?”
The spectator snorted in disgust: “Fucking cheats.”
The voice on the PA raised in intensity and pitch: ‘And here come the competitors in the pass the torch relay! Australia in the lead.’
Jeff and Bob took a couple of nervous hits on their beers.
‘He’s had a hit on the dutchie and passed it to the left.’
They leaned forward in their seats.
‘Australia well in front now — oh no! He’s passed it to the right. Instant disqualification!’
‘Dickhead!’ they cried in unison.
‘Next up is Chasing the Dragon. Up to this point in time, we’ve never had a winner.’
Back down in the tunnel, Jeff and Bob helped themselves to a couple more refills.
“Jeez, Bob,” Jeff sighed. “This is all getting a bit ridiculous. Do you reckon the Winter Olympics would be any better? I’d like to see someone on LSD take on the ski jump.”
Bob shrugged. “A bloke in the stands said they had the last Winter Olympics in Columbia. It was an excellent snow season — the powder was a metre deep!”
“Well, I reckon most of these winners are fucking losers, mate.” Jeff winked and raised his beer. “But I tell you something.” He took a long, luxurious slug. “I reckon we’re a shoe-in for gold in the double sculls!”
About The Author
Sixty of Brent Lillie's articles, fiction pieces and commentaries have appeared in various major publications including Tracks, Australian Penthouse, the Picture and That's Life. His stories have seen light of day in SF publications including Aurealis and Eidolon and two of his stories received Honourable Mentions in the prestigious 'Datlow Windling's Year's Best Fantasy and Horror'. Brent's short fiction piece, 'The Jam Jar', won the 2nd Aurealis Millennium Short Story Competition.
Brent writes about "It's About Time, Sport":
'My sons and I kicked around an idea for a week or so then put it down in writing. It's a sequel to a story that I had published in The Picture magazine quite a while back, but they don't accept stories any more so we gave AntipodeanSF a shot and got the Gold!'