Drunk Isabelle

Most people would perhaps be somewhat embarrassed by the whole horrid affair, maybe take to their homes and pull the curtains closed in shame and sit on the sofa in their underpants, maybe eat their way through four or five tubs of Hagen-Daz until the voices in their head stopped ringing the 'shame' bell. 

  But not Isabelle. She had rarely felt as proud as she did right now, as the entire population of the island stood on the banks of the island looking out at the ocean in collective horror. 

  Earlier that morning Izzy had gone for her usual post 'whisky-breakfast' bowel movement in the toilets of Resident Services. However, not only did the foul evacuation refuse to flush away, but Izzy had to almost climb off the thing as it stood proudly out of the water, basking in the glow of the cheap neon strip light overhead. 

  After taking a few photos to show her creation off to Raymond later that evening during their weekly salsa dance class, she decided to go and check the septic waste tank at the rear of Resident Services. Sure enough it was clogged solid, and despite the several whacks she gave the drainage pipe with a bird bath she stole out of Fuchsia's garden, nothing was coming out of the poop-packed pipework. 

  Well, Mama Izzy liked to think that she was second to none when it came to problem solving on the fly, so with barely a second thought she ran off to collect her welding torch and was soon burning her way through the circular end of the large waste tank. 

In her head, Isabelle's plan was solid. Considering the tank sat on the edge of the river, if she cut a hole on the end of the tank the contents would dribble out into the water and slowly drain away out to the ocean, where the fish could make a meal of her magnificent movements. 

  However Izzy had seriously underestimated the pressure forcing its way out of the shit-stuffed septic storage, and after a few small cuts the entire end of the large circular tank popped off, like someone had stamped on an empty Pringles tin. Rather than the expected outpouring of noxious fluids though, what looked like a 20ft long and 10ft high brown slug unfolded itself slowly from the tank, and with a definitive 'plop' sound landed directly into the river in front of it. 

Izzy was awestruck. She immediately ran to the front of Resident Services and ripped the flagpole out of the ground, before sprinting back to the river and jamming it along with the town flag into the top of the massive floating bowel-movement boat, now slowly drifting down the river. As it eventually hit the sea, it had already pulled in a crowd of horrified onlookers, who watched aghast as Isabelle ignited a cigarette lighter and launched it toward the wobbly brown abomination. 

With a massive shock of yellow flame, the 'Viking Shit Boat' was fully ablaze, and as people slowly returned to their homes to try and kill the image they'd just seen with a few tubs of premium ice cream, Mama Izzy stood on the banks of the island and sang at the top of her lungs toward the burning vessel. 

Sadly she didn't know any Viking death songs, so she settled for a few verses of 'Gangnam Style'. 

  Isabelle was livid. She hadn’t been this angry since Coca-Cola brought out its ‘new recipe’, which absolutely ruined the flavor of her favourite vodka mixer.

   It seemed that Timmy and Tommy had been visited by a couple of miscreants at opening time, who not only maliciously knocked over a guitar and a cardboard dinosaur that nobody ever wanted, but they had managed to break into the cabinet while the twins were distracted and made off with nearly 135 packets of medicine, no doubt to sell on the mainland for some quick dirty cash.

  After looking over the CCTV footage, Mama Izzy quickly figured out who the pair of thieving bastards were.  With a quick promise from Tom Nook that he’d pay for her whisky for the next week if she got the bastards, she strapped on her finest shit-kickers and jumped on a Dodo flight to the mainland.

  It only took visits to three bars, some bite marks and several ass-kickings handed out to their less than salubrious patrons to get a source on where Coach and Vladimir could be, and within a short while Izzy found herself standing face to face with the horrible bastards in a nearby darkened alleyway.

  Coach & Vladimir were frozen to the spot. They knew by reputation how wild Izzy’s drunken rage could be, and judging by her slurred words as she described the size of item she soon would be ramming forcibly up their pooping tubes, she’d clearly already been deep in about the morning sherries.  

Isabelle was all for sitting at home for her day off, wearing some questionably clean sweatpants and getting shit-faced drunk whilst binge watching some old ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter’ episodes, but before she could even sniff the gusset to check the cleanliness of her proposed lounge wear, Blathers appeared at the door with an alternative plan.

Turns out Blathers’ had been running a little science experiment over the last few weeks and had cultivated some ‘magic mushrooms’ in the back room of the museum that, in his own words, “Would have Vincent Van Gogh happily hack off his other damned ear with joy”.

Well shit, this sounded right up Mama Izzy’s street. Far better than sweating inside watching a peroxide haired man spraying criminals with pepper. So after filling a cooler with beer and grabbing a vinyl picnic sheet in case things got a bit pissy or stabby, they each devoured a handful of mushrooms and set out onto the island to get drunk under a nearby pear tree.

However, plans suddenly changed as the hallucinogenic fungi kicked in. Rather than lounging in the shade, enjoying a mild hallucinogenic episode and drinking beer until they couldn’t feel their legs, it was instead decided that they had to urgently climb into Barold’s garden and cut crop circles into the lawn to protect them from the rainbow coloured Venusian spaceships now hovering dangerously overhead.

Once the circles were done, Izzy laid out the blanket, beer cooler and ‘medicinal weed’ to welcome their new Venusian Overlords, while Blathers staggered off to the back of the house to take a shit in Barold’s Air Conditioning unit.

Unfortunately neither Isabelle nor Blathers knew that Barold was secretly a devoted member of the Church of Scientology, and upon seeing the crop circles now covering his garden, instantly assumed this was a message from the great Xenu, leader of the Galactic Confederacy, and that Barold had finally been chosen to ascend.

The ensuing police investigation is sadly somewhat blurry. Blathers was given a fine for public defecation, but managed to have the charge acquitted after successfully proving that as a bird, he was fully within his goddamned rights to shit in the most inconvenient of places. Izzy too received a verbal warning. Not for being under the influence of hallucinogenics in a public place, but for launching her medical weed over the fence when the police arrived and inadvertently smashing a window at the back of the Able Sisters shop.

Barold however had to be coaxed down off the roof of the Museum by the police over a six hour operation, where he had stood naked and screaming at the sky asking if Xenu would let him take his PS4 since he still hadn’t completed the Final Fantasy VII Remake.

There was nothing more that Isabelle loved more after a hard week of fiddling Nook’s books to the taxman whilst under the influence of several litres of cheap ‘Russian Potato Water’, than to visit the illicit still she’d put in place down in the cellar of Resident Services.

  Tom never came down there, for fear of getting soot or dust on his much prized, (and very expensive) baby seal skin trousers. Which meant that when Mama Izzy offered to take care of the grubby underbelly of Tom’s pristine workplace, he was happy to let her oblige on the understanding that she wouldn’t be getting any extra bells in her pay at the end of each month for it.

  Isabelle didn’t care, the miserable trash-panda bastard could keep his Bells considering she was making a damned fine sideline of brewing her own gin and punting it off to the lowlifes on the mainland, who didn’t mind the near 36% risk of blindness and renal failure that her refined concoction of ‘exotic herbs and spices infused gin’ could cause them.

  However today was a worrying one; She’d snuck downstairs to see how her latest batch of 68% proof, “Izzy’s Eyeball and Intestine Irritant’ was getting on, only to find the floor covered in a horror movie-esque fog.

  Naturally worried that her finely tuned blend of bleach, distilled spirit and scented air freshener had perhaps exploded out of the small still, she ran over and popped open the top to check the contents. She breathed in a huge sigh of relief; the concoction was still bubbling away nicely in the still, and the fog was merely the air around the room condensating as it came near the horrid dull-green circular container of evil Izzy Inebriant.

  That huge sigh of relief however was short lived as her lungs filled with the potent vapors of her demonic distillation. No sooner had the piss started soaking through her tights as her bladder emptied itself in fear, she was down on the ground losing consciousness.

  But goddamit, this wasn’t Mama Izzy’s first rodeo. With sheer grit and determination, she managed to reseal the lid and then drag herself to the stairs before passing out completely, where she slept until her urine soaked tights cooled enough to make her legs shiver and wake her up.

 “Lesson learned!” thought Isabelle as she headed to the bathroom to wring out her under-crackers below the hand dryers. 

  It had been a confusing 24hrs for our favourite alcoholic administrative assistant. Just last night she'd been tipped off that Egbert was doing a 'moonlight flit' away from his home, and had walked round to find him with all his stuff packed, heavily sweating and throwing it all into the back of a large unmarked raft at the nearby beach. 

  What was even more confusing was the man there helping Egbert clear the place out. A fellow called 'Mr White' she'd met weeks before at a BBQ event that Egbert had organised for his neighbours. A friendly sort back then who had managed to source Izzy a bottle of Blue Menthol Moonshine that he claimed came from his special secret 'distillery' . 

  All Mama knew was that three glasses later she had passed out, then regained consciousness four hours later to find herself on the roof of the museum throwing slate tiles at nearby seagulls. 

  However here was a less than cool Mr White dragging what looked like steel drums and glass vials full of blue smarties out to the raft and heaving them in. She stood back and simpky watched as with barely a pause, both men wiped down every surface in the building and took off in the raft with not even a light on to guide their way through the choppy waters.. 

  And then here we were. Less than twelve hours later Izzy is only halfway through her whisky soaked Cheerios when suddenly the island is lit up like New Years Eve in Times Square. Helicopter floodlights sweapt over the island as Izzy quickly dug through her laundry pile for her least piss stained knickers, got quickly dressed and ran outside to see what the hell was going on, only to be faced with some very large Alsatians in pristine SWAT uniforms demanding where the fucking chicken was. 

  Turns out, Egbert and his friend had been quietly supplying the mainland with large amounts of 'Blue Cluckers', a highly concentrated and potent form of crystal meth, from a small laboratory situated under Egbert's recently vacated home here on the island. 

  Of course, Mama Izzy was FURIOUS. Mainly because this had gone on under her nose all this time without her knowledge, besmirching her abilities as a five year running award winning island administrator  (1996 - 2001). And secondly because this was going to make shifting the 14 bags of 'smarties' she'd snuck out Egbert's raft while they were cleaning away evidence in the house infinitely harder to shift now. 

Ah well, at least she still had a three quarter bottle of the Blue Menthol Moonshine left. Time to get shit-faced and throw some feces at Rodney's House to cheer herself up. 

What an arse of a week Isabelle has had so far. First she gets fined £1,000 by the cops for trying to hide in the Brewster's Bar toilets with a stolen bottle of vodka after the 10pm 'Covid curfew', then that little blue fucker Rodney came back from a Smashmouth concert and they were forced to lockdown the whole damned island for two weeks because the half-pint hamster halfwit had lost the ability to smell, and had spent most of the day coughing up lumps of half digested burger van kebab meat.

She was forced to fall back on her super secret escape plan from the island, which she'd put in place a couple of years previously after suspecting the authorities might potentially kick her door if they found out about the cases of homemade gin she'd sold to the mainland for a quick bit of cash.

They'd been labeled as 'Isabelle's Premium Gin' at the time, but were little more than two parts Domestos and some strawberry flavoured water mixed together to give it a wee fruity 'Je ne sais quois' before the poor recipient potentially fell blind after three sips.

She had to get to the mainland since it was 'Fight Club' night and she was finally facing Blathers in a tournament semi final knockout round. She was determined to win, and she'd spent most of the day slipping tranquillisers and diuretics into his lunchbox at the museum so he'd be ruined for fight time.

Sure enough, after a swift speedboat ride, two chloroformed police officers and a hefty bung of cash to a taxi driver, she was prepped, vaselined up and facing off against a clearly half asleep historian barn owl who was about to get his fucking shit severely ruined..

#DrunkAF

Fuck 'Ewe' Dom! 😡

  It had been a week now since some horrible bastard had taken it upon themselves to shit out a good 2.4kg of half digested 'bacon & cheese toastie' into the public bathrooms at the museum, and still Blathers was off work sick, claiming he was still suffering hallucinations and nightmares after discovering the 'Double-Dung Deposit' that had clogged up his pristine facilities. 

  Isabelle had been quick to take charge of the investigation, promising to leave no stone unturned in her search for the person who had caused her good friend Blathers such trauma. 

  This of course was all a front. Isabelle knew that by leading the hunt for the phantom 'Toilet Terrorist' she could divert unwanted attention away from the real culprit; Herself. 

  Mama had been experimenting with some homebrewing and had started making gin using the waste bin below her desk. All had been going well, with Tom Nook assuming that the smell stinging his eyes was just a hefty splash of Isabelle's new perfume, but secretly she'd thrown in a handful of Sugar Free Jelly Babies for flavouring that had been mistakenly left in the visitor centre by Dom earlier, and after testing the concoction later that day while Tom was away for lunch, she soon discovered that sugar free Jelly Babies offered little but explosive diarrhoea when it made its eventual exit. 

  Not wanting to cover the visitor services toilet in shite for a fourth week running, Izzy ran from the knees down to the nearby Museum where, if she was quiet enough, she could sneak in past the perpetually dozing Blathers and make use of the public facilities. 

  And here she was; Leading the hunt for the horrible sumnabitch who'se left the museum toilets looking like somebody had stuck a firecracker inside an industrial sized can of stewed steak. 

#DrunkAF

Isabelle Watch - Day 40:

  This wasn't Mama's first time working her way through a court ordered community service. It was only last month she had to paint old people's fences for a week after she'd drunkenly tried to drive a stolen empty school bus into the Burger King drive-through.  And shortly before that she was ordered to pick up roadside litter for two weeks after being caught on CCTV making out with a statue of Thomas Jefferson, then pissing down its leg for giving her the cold shoulder. 

  She was an old hat with this shit, and pretty much on first name terms with the local judge due to all her inebriated misdemeanours, but when she was told she was being sent to attend group sessions to talk about her drunken behaviour along with other miscreants she panicked. 

  It was all well and good speaking to people all day in Residential Services. She was usually well oiled on vodka and enjoyed crushing people's hearts with really shit island evaluations, but here she'd have to be open, honest and god forbid, sober. 

  Isabelle sat in horrified silence as people around her chatted about their experiences. She knew as she sipped on her piss-poor coffee that she needed to break the ice somehow if she was going to fit in with this group of miserable strangers. Then it came to her; She'd break the ice with a joke. 

  Inspiration came when a small Hamster fellow across the room called Rodney started talking about trying to find drinking alternatives. 

  "I've tried a few things that haven't worked, so now I've been dabbling with non-alcoholic beers to see if that helps ease the crav-" 

  Isabelle interrupted, "-NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER EH? HAHA, THAT'S LIKE GOING DOWN ON YOUR GODDAMNED COUSIN!!" 

  You could have heard a pin drop as all eyes in the room slowly turned to look at Izzy, 

  "Well I mean, it tastes the same but you still know it's fucking wrong.."

  Everyone left shortly after with very little fuss, the Group Councillor asking Isabelle to hang back at the end to quietly tell her that it was probably best she didn't attend any further meetings here, and that he would just tell the court she was present even though she wasn't. 

Drunk Isabelle Watch: Day 32.

  Isabelle had taken a half-day at work, telling Tom Nook that she had a hospital appointment to see about fixing some ingrowing toenails, however the truth was that she had been round at Rodney’s house for ‘games night’ with a few of the other islanders a couple of nights ago, and by the time they had moved onto Monopoly Isabelle was already a bottle of gin deep and ended up falling ass-first onto the board. 

  It wasn’t until a couple of days later that she shat out a wheelbarrow, a cat and a slightly worse for wear top-hat that she realized that some of Rodney’s board game pieces had ended up several generous inches up her lower bowel, and now she was scared that at any moment she might see the reappearance of a war-weary battleship and most of the hotels from the Old Kent Road.  

  It was decided that she would leave work early, and try aiding the remaining mixture of plastic and steel out of her system with the aid of some self medication.

   Izzy knew that nothing loosened her bowels more than a good few cheap beers and some bar peanuts, so she took herself off to the mainland to find a suitable dive bar that could accommodate her request. 

  This however was proving problematic, since Mama had over time found herself barred from most licensed premises around the mainland for various inebriated misdemeanours. But after some asking around she found a small bar up a lone back street that wouldn't know who she was. However as she approached the front steps of 'Tequila Mockingbird' she was stopped in her tracks by a large neon-lit notice by the door;

  "NO STEERS, QUEERS OR EUROPEAN BEERS!" 

Izzy stood for a second trying to take in what she was seeing. Rarely had she been as instantaneously furious as she was at this moment.

  Some of her best friends were cows or bulls, and like her some of them liked to butter their sexual toast on different, (or both) sides. If these bastards thought that her and her friends were unwelcome from coming inside and buying a cold pint of Scottish 'Tennents', then they had better bloody have another think coming..

  Isabelle was absolutely furious. It was only when she’d overheard Tom Nook talking to Cookie about how much they had enjoyed the islands 4th July celebrations that she realized she’d missed out on perhaps her most favouritest part of the year.  Nothing appealed more to Mama than alcohol and fireworks mixed with rampant patriotism, and she’d somehow missed out on the whole damned event. 

  What Isabelle didn’t know was that she’d missed the event due to Tom lacing her morning whisky with even more whisky and some ground up horse tranquilliser, in the hope that she would pass out early and not ruin the event he had planned that evening for all the residents of the island. 

  The year before Izzy had drunkenly shoved a Roman Candle through the letterbox of the Able Sisters shop and managed to burn three viking outfits and a customized Kimono before they’d managed to stamp the firework out, so it was decided that they would try and take her out of the running early for this year by getting her horribly shit-faced on whisky as early as possible. 

  The plan had worked; Izzy had not only slept through the 4th July celebrations, but had awoken on the beach two days later beside a soggy seagull in a pirates outfit. 

  But they were all damned fools if they thought that Mama was any kind of godforsaken quitter. A short call later to Dodo Airlines and she was over the border into Mexico before noon, arriving back at the island later that night with the largest box of illegal fireworks seen this side of World War 2. 

  It was 2am and Tom was just settling into his money pile for a sleep when an almighty explosion ripped through the skies around his house. Before he could pull on his Nook Inc thong and shorts, another blast of light came through the windows, stinging the eyes and reminding him of that scene in Terminator 2 when Linda Hamilton is holding onto the school fence. 

  He staggered outside, clearly suffering some form of shock as another explosion ripped through the skies above him.  Flames showered down around Tom as he ran to the plaza to see what was happening, only to find Isabelle setting off what looked like fucking atom bombs between chugs from a large bottle of Jim Beam.

  “SUCK MY BALLS BITCHES!” Screamed Izzy as another illegal Mexican firework blazed into life and shot itself into the night sky, her face lit up by the burning around her like Beelzebub himself watching over his demonic horde. 

  If it hadn’t been for the sudden 8 bar of water pressure to her face from the fire hose that Tom had pulled out beside the Town Hall, Izzy would have set off her last explosive masterpiece; The 'Sky-Fucker 5000', illegal in most developed nations and guaranteed to illicit a Defcon 5 response from any military force within a 500 mile radius. 

  Tom put a note in his diary that next year he'd increase the sedative dose in her Bourbon and confiscate her fucking passport for a few weeks. 

#DrunkAF