Eddie Nash grew up in a picturesque American home, one of those that seemed ripped directly from a catalogue. You would not be at fault for thinking otherwise had you ever met him in person however. Generally crass and often times vulgar Nash revels in the downtrodden and bleak existence he often finds himself in. Nash is an irreverent gambler and holds the belief that there is no stake too high or risk too dangerous. In fact he Is often at his most gleeful when all is on the line and the odds are slim.
Banned from Atlantic city, due to a minor misunderstanding between where it is appropriate to play Russian roulette and where it is most assuredly not (poolside at the Golden Nugget being one of the latter). Nash had to search for greener "free-er" pastures. Nash purchased a one way ticket to Russia, as far as he knew anything goes in Russia. Aside from sharing his passion for vodka Nash found he didn't have much in common with the Russians. His carefree attitude was met with the stalwart defense of grim faces perched on top of even more grim people, hardened by recent civil tensions and undue hardships.
It didn't take Nash long to make what most would consider "enemies". On the border of Chernarussia, Nash had procured a particularly strong bottle of moonshine after besting a nearby farmer at dice. Feeling quite good about his luck, and about halfway through his newly acquired brew, Nash was just starting to entice the nearby Russian border guards to join him in a game of Russian Roulette.
Unfortunately, the soldiers moods as of late had been a little on the dark side, and had Nash been one to follow up on political goings-ons he may have stood a chance at noticing this. As it was though, Nash instead kept blabbering on and on, in an ever increasing cantor, until when it seemed he would never shut up one of the burlier of the bunch grabbed Nash by the throat and forced a semblance of silence for the group. A few bad words were exchanged and some equally menacing threats handed down, and Nash knew it was time to fold his hand and excuse himself from whatever game he had just started.
Nash, in larger part thanks to how inebriated he was, was lacking many polite and proper ways of extricating himself from this predicament. Thankfully luck was on his side, and a few violent spasms later Nash was projectile vomiting his nearby vicinity. This proved to be a most effective method as neither friend nor foe would willingly stand in line of such a grotesque show. The ensuing confusion was just enough time for Nash to slip under the tarp of a nearby transport truck. The rough road ahead coupled with the hard metallic bed of the truck, did Nash no favors, but at least he was still breathing and he had half a bottle left to boot.
The transport truck that sheltered Nash was one of the last cross border deliveries that Svetlojark would receive. And upon delivering its cargo, both intended and unintentional, Nash found him self in yet another new land. Hopefully he would have better luck making some friends this time.