Author's Note: Horrid perverse stuff that'll make your eyes bleed!! Nah, it's just naughty fun. Working hard to stay as in-character as possible while perving it up. Adults only, enjoy.
The Trouble with Barney, Part I
The rap on the front door was sharp and insistent. It startled her a bit, but Helen Krump was not the type to alarm easily. She put down the little meatloaf she was shaping and readying to place in the pan and made a small sound of dismay. She debated for a moment whether to wash her hands or just wipe them on one of the four matching flowered dishtowels at the top of the drawer that held only dishtowels. But if she opted for the latter, then her hands—covered with beef that had been freshly ground for her at the butcher's on her way home from school as well as egg, salt, pepper, and breadcrumbs (a taste she had learned as a child from war rationing)—would get grease on the pretty white porcelain knob of the drawer. She hadn't time to ponder further, however, as the knocking grew more urgent, and was joined by the voice of her friend Thelma Lou, calling her name.
"Helen? Helen, are you home?" whined Thelma Lou piteously as she knocked with whitened knuckles on her friend's door. She was practically shaking with anxiety. Though she was never as centered and serene as the well-spoken schoolteacher, Thelma Lou was no one to panic without cause. Her years as the steady girl of Barney Fife had taught her the value of calm in the face of crisis, and she treasured her role. Though she would likely never have the ease and maturity of a couple like Helen and the handsome, wavy-haired sheriff Andy Taylor, she had hooked his deputy and enjoyed being the one to soothe his nervous temperament and stand by his side when misunderstandings led him to need a sympathetic ear and two loving arms to hold him. Now, however, everything was threatening to unravel, to crumble to the floor like the crust of that piece of pecan pie Barney had dropped on her clean carpet only three blissful days ago.
At last Helen came to the door, pale blue dishtowel with white and yellow daisies still in her hands. She had hastily wiped off the drawer knob with it after pulling it to get the cloth, and now she used it on the front door handle, too. Thelma Lou burst into the room the moment Helen had it open, wringing her hands and pacing past her then back. "Why, Thelma Lou Harper, goodness gracious! What's the matter?"
"Oh, Helen, it's terrible." She perched on the arm of a chair then rose and paced back to Helen as she closed the door. She threw up her hands. "Just terrible," she emphasized.
Helen sighed and nodded. When Thelma Lou was like this there was no way to get useful information out of her. She'd have to calm her down. Fortunately, she had a fresh brewed pot of coffee on the stove. That always did wonders to quiet the nerves. She walked Thelma Lou to the sofa and sat her down. "Now you just sit here and try to pull yourself together. I'll bring you a hot cup of coffee, nice and sweet with lots of cream, just the way you like it. And then you can tell me just what's so terrible." Thelma Lou nodded nervously, her fingers to her mouth. Helen sighed and headed into the kitchen. The poor woman could be as bad as a fourth grader.
When she returned (having taken a cool-headed moment to pop the meatloaf into the oven and wash her hands before pouring the coffee), Thelma Lou didn't look a bit better. In fact, she was rather pale. "Are you all right?" she asked, putting the china cup and saucer carefully into her friend's shaking hands.
Thelma Lou shook her neatly coiffed head and looked about to cry. She sipped the coffee and let its warmth comfort her a bit. "Oh, Helen. You don't know," she bleated. "You just don't know."
"No," said Helen, in her no-nonsense teacherly voice. "No, I don't know, Thelma Lou, and if you don't tell me I'll never know." Really, the woman was a dear, but she could be positively maddening. "Get hold of yourself and tell me what's wrong!" She didn't like that she had raised her voice, of course. Calm control was her catchphrase for a contented life, but she wasn't perfect, "Perfection only comes when in heaven," her Mama used to say. But one could strive.
Thelma Lou took another drink and finally seemed to still herself. "Well, it's like this, Helen. I went over to the courthouse to bring Barney some cobbler. You know how he loves warm peach cobbler, straight from the oven, and I just picked the loveliest sweet ripe peaches from the tree behind my house. So, I thought I'd make him up a batch. With just a touch of cinnamon."
Helen nodded, swallowing down a sigh of impatience by sipping her coffee. "Go on," she urged, trying to keep her voice even.
"Well, I was carrying my cobbler, wrapped nice in towels so it'd stay warm, and I balanced it on my hip and got the Courthouse door open, and…and…" Thelma Lou flushed hotly and bit her lip.
Helen gripped her cup tightly, nodding but not speaking in hopes her troubled friend would get to the point more quickly if she didn't say anything more.
"It-it-it was Barney," she sputtered, "arms overhead, handcuffed to the outside of the cell on the left, naked as the day he was born!" She burst into tears, shaking from head to toe.
Helen's jaw dropped and she nearly broke the china cup in her hands in shock. Surely, she misheard. She squeezed her eyes shut against the image of a naked Barney attached to a jail cell, then opened them again, fixing them on Thelma Lou. She needed to hear more, but it was difficult to find her vocal cords. "Thelma—" She cleared her throat. "Are you sure?"
Thelma nodded vigorously, still beet red with embarrassment, her eyes wet. Oh, the image was burned forever into her mind. Sure? She was more than sure. Terribly, horribly sure. "I dropped the cobbler and the pan shattered and peaches and dough went everywhere!" she sobbed, unable to go on to the next part. Helen would be crushed.