Ft. Knox. Summer 2006. 1322 HRS. CQ Desk.
A doe-eyed PFC sits nervously with a pen and a dream....and a drill sergeant sitting
immediately to his 3 o'clock. On the desk in front of him lay a single sheet of white paper, completely blank sheet- minus the small
sweat stain in the corner. The PFC feels the glare of the drill sergeant burning a hole through the side of his head. He smells the intensity, he tastes the hate....or maybe it's the three bean salad he choked down in the chow hall eight minutes
earlier? No matter, it sucked.
'Draw, Private. And you better make this good.'
For the next 6 hours the PFC drew like his life depended on it. He drew a sweet horse. He drew a sweet demonic knight-looking thing
holding a battle axe and riding the back of the sweet horse. He drew some brick walls surrounded by green ghost flames, and he drew the
names of everybody in his platoon, including those non-hackers who had been recycled. He drew exactly what the drill sergeant hanging
over the soldier told him to draw, and in the end, it looked ridiculous.
The drill sergeant clutched the finished piece proudly in his hands, and looked to the PFC. 'You have some serious talent, Private....Now, Get your fatass out of my face.'
A few weeks later at graduation, the very first Inkfidel shirt rolled off of the oddly-placed-screen-printing-business-in-the-
shopette-run-by-a-biker-looking-dude-profiting-off-of-the-tears-of-a-thousand-privates presses, green ghost flames and all.
That doe-eyed PFC was all grows-up and once again a civilian. He had designed several more shirts for his collection during his time in the Army and found it to be something that he truly loved to do. He had gone back to school and was using his hard earned Post 9/11 G.I. Bill money toward a B.A. in graphic design. He was a man on a mission. That mission? He had no idea.