I've written this in the winter of 2017, in my free time. This is the third fiction story I've written. The first one I've written in third grade. All I remember is that the protagonist is an infallible, Mary Sue type character. I don't possess a copy, so I don't even know the plot (If it has any). The second being about a horde of Dinosaurs invading a small European country, and the only person who can save them is a bumbling buffoon. To conclude, the only reason I'm posting this here is for criticism, so I know what to fix for my next "work" (whatever that will be).

Green Anchors Cat Merchant.

Frank was sitting in his ratty old couch from before he was born, wearing sweatpants and a wife-beater. He was staring at an unknown stain on his plaster wall from years past, bored by idling. Boredom soon turned into hunger, so he went to the kitchen looking for a snack. He first looked in his pantry, and he only saw a slices of moldy bread. There were also some saltines, and a half consumed can of long expired peanut butter. Then, he went to his crusty fridge. He saw an almost empty ketchup bottle, a small block of government cheese. The fridge is caked with grime due to fifteen years of neglect.

"Great. I got nothin' good to eat, guess I'll starve!" thought Frank.

Then he realized that it's the beginning of the month; the time he received his welfare check, which saved the day. He put on his flip-flops, and fumbled out his trailer. The trailer had a foundation so rotted that it was surprise that it still stood. His former forest green siding made mint by the sun. The mailbox more resembled a corroded and dented tin can. His yard and driveway wasn't the better. The lawn enveloped by trash. The once beautiful green grass killed off by the ever pervasive crabgrass and dandelions. His driveway flattened gravel with various flora growing between the small stones.

He walked to his rusty and trusty old sedan with a cling-wrap window. The exterior was a dull gray color due to duct tape. The interior was full of discarded fast-food containers and plastic soda bottles. The seats were a light gray with a dark gray zig-zag pattern; the upholstery being a blend of polyester and wool, stained with the secrete sauce from his favorite fast food eatery. His dash made of cracked plastic with a leathery texture. The gear shifter was so worn that you could barely decipher the gear diagram printed on it. The console had a vacuous cavity where a radio use to reside.

The engine knock, and the chassis rattled when he sped down the freeway in a manner no different than a movie car chase. He'd swerved between lanes, making a nuisance for everyone else. He was insistent on getting to the super-center. He never saw flashing red and blue lights, or the sound of a siren. Frank was glad that there were no pigs on the highway, because he had five bags of ditch weed in his glove department.

He parked his car in the handicap space, and he put a poorly forged handicap placard on his dashboard. He stumbled his way to the store with a cane as is to look disabled, avoiding cars. His acting is quite convincing. Acting disabled seemed to be the only thing he's good at. Nobody noticed, nobody cared that Frank is doing something reprehensible. He scooted around and got the staples of all North American white trash (Sputatilicus Americanas). These are potato chips, cheese flavored corn chips, snack cakes, generic diet cola and frozen dinners. If it had less than sixty-seven ingredients, and four-hundred milligrams of sodium; it wasn't in his buggy. Then he looked at the fancy appliances he could steal in a time of mass crisis. He maneuvered himself through the handicap, elderly and people of his kind to the self-checkout. Frank was a stubborn type of person that tried and tried to use the self-checkout with more than fifty items. When an error came up on the machine, a manager came to the self-checkout. The manager had a surly disposition, since she had long grueling hours and low pay for her tasks. She approached the lane trying to being sweet as possible, saying.

"You know that you can't have more than fifty items, sir?"

"No, ma'am." retorted Frank

"That is probably, *sigh* why your having a problem, sir."

"Can I be the exception to the rule." begged Frank

"No you can't. It's store policy." said the manager

"If you're going to be that way, I'll have to see the manager." said Frank

"I am the manager; sir. Please don't make this difficult, just go to the checkout lane with a cashier." said the manager.

"No!" exclaimed Frank.

"Please, sir!" begged the manager

"I can checkout where I want. When I want. I've killed a thousand sand negroids in Kazakhstan during 'desert storm'. I'm the reason you have your comfortable 'Retail Job'. So…"

The manager screamed bloody murder. A nearby greeter came to the manager's aid.

"You have to leave! You're not allowed in the store again!" said the greeter.

He didn't want busted by the police, so he complied with the greeter's request. This though put him in a pickle. This is the last store in town that both accepted food stamps, and didn't have him on a ban list. He panicked. Where else is he going to buy twenty jars of processed cheese food. He is sure as hell not going to the food bank or local church. All they have is plain shredded wheat, cream corn and stale bread. Also, those places smelled like mix of mildew and mothballs!

He went to another plaza trying to look for a new place to spend all the food stamps that he worked so hard to get. He was going to give up but a sign caught his eye. A sign made from cheap printer paper with, "Cats, 99.5% off" scrawled on with permanent marker. The sign taped to a store's window. Then a light-bulb went off in his head. He could buy a bunch buy a bunch of cats for a cheap price, and sell them to people in the trailer park to a more expensive price. He can no longer defraud the government. As Frank entered entered the store; his excitement soon turned into disgust. The cats were living in extreme squalor! There was and extreme stench of feces, the cages were rusty, there was barely any food or water. It's was the feline equivalent of Astuwitz! Fortunately, the kitties were only five cents a piece, a steal. He liberated all fifty felines for the low low price of two dollars and fifty cents, but there was one problem. How is he going to transport all these cats? Then a light-bulb went off in his mind. He had a giant pale taupe burlap sack. Why does he have a giant burlap sack? I don't know, you ask me. So he went back to his hillbilly chrome death contraption and grabbed his sack. He went back to the animal adoption, "business" and he put them in the sack. Usually, his skin would have been scratched off, because of the fact that they're cats, but since there very emaciated, defenseless, so defenseless to prevent their most essential survival instinct.

Most people, when buying a pet would buy supplies to take care of said pet, but not Frank. He thought that you can feed cats the same as people. He doesn't know that cats are (for the most) carnivores. They can't eat spray cheese and saltine crackers (The diet of all white trash mongoloids, e.g Frank). He also thought that cats use the toilet, because he saw it on TV, and he also thought that you can transport many cats using a sack. Someone that smart, you'll think will be card carrying member of Mensa, but he's not.

When he went back to the park; Frank unloaded all the cats on a bald spot in his yard, half of them dead. No loss, twenty-five of them were still kicking. He still could make a profit; he went to his pantry, and he retrieved a half-empty packet of saltines. Then he went to his sink and fetched a glass of hard water; he tried to feed this to the cat's, but they barfed it out. It wasn't good on their weak stomachs. So he looked harder in his kitchen and he a few cubes of beef bouillon. He made some broth with the cubes, which was kinder on the felines' stomachs. After a while, the cats got progressively better and better, and soon were in condition to sell, but they were slow sellers. While the cats were healthiest they've ever been, they were still disheveled. He kept them in a makeshift pen his tiny yard, the pen had food troth and a small shed for them to lay in. Whilst it better than the condition that they were in before; it was still inhumane. The cats also started to escape. The cats became a major nuisance, because they became a vector of disease. You couldn't turn a corner without seeing one of those damn cats. Many concerned residents called animal control.

Before the cops came over, Frank tried to gather up all his cats and put it in his sack. The cats were now had the strength to retaliate. Their sharp claws quickly turned his face into a fountain of blood. If that wasn't insult to injury, many of the cats eluded him. The cops were already in the park. He ran to a nearby forest to hide. The coast was clear until the police brought out the k-9 unit. The bloodhounds caught him with his pants down, because he was urinating on a tree. He tried to run away from the cops, but he was tased, making him collapse like a stiff board. The hounds pull on their harness; in a trivial attempt to pursue and attack Frank while his was down.