Name: Eric Bradshaw<br/>Age: 25<br/>Hometown: Boston, Massachusetts<br/>Height: 6’1”<br/>Weight: 180lbs<br/>Hair: dirty blond hair.<br/>Eyes: green<br/>Primary Occupation: Surgeon, medical resident<br/>Secondary Occupation/Skill set: General first-aid, diagnostician, smooth talker, movie buff<br/>Physical Description: Eric is a slim man, surprisingly agile. Not overly powerful but able to endure, and handle gore. This is due to his residency at Boston Memorial. Long hours have made him able to run on lower amounts of sleep and ignore a large amount of fatigue if not pain. He can run fast and hard if he needs to. He's skinny and wiry looking. He was last seen in green surgical scrub bottoms and a navy blue tee-shirt. Wearing white gym socks and black converse high-tops.<br/>Notable Equipment: Nothing<br/>History: "I'm beginning to hyperventilate. Calm down. Calm down! Focus. Focus what's you're life story! Focus!  I was born to Olivia and Harold Bradshaw of Boston, MA. Always a curious youth I grew up in the old colonials of Boston. I lived in a relative safety of his prim and proper upbringing. However, my life hasn't been all that perfect. I've had a total of two near-death experiences. First, at age ten I fell of my fathers fishing boat one January day and nearly drowned. As a result I cannot swim, I fear deep water. That's it rationalize, rationalize... Okay at seventeen I was out of high school and going into college. I was up on the water tower of some hick town in the boondocks and I was shit-faced drunk. I nearly fell off of the tower and my friends barely grabbed me in time, and now I'm afraid of heights.<br/>I didn't let that stop me. I was always smart and I was able to take college courses online while in high school and was able to almost enter med school afterward. I was-- am-- am damn it, a promising surgeon. Gifted damn it all. But you couldn't take that and go with it. No. You had to show everyone how damn smart you were. Play the damn game. I became addicted to gambling and ran up a huge debt to the New Jersey mafia. Apparently numbers are much harder than being a surgeon. That's ultimately why I'm in this shit heap. I've spent the last... almost a damn month running from the mob, but they caught up to me about three days ago. They... broke my arm and shoved me in a trunk. I never stayed in one place for a day. but they caught up and now I'm in Ohio, or Nebraska waiting to be whacked. God it sounded like a movie. That was honestly a brief overview of this butchery you call a life. Now you're in the back of the trunk you've been in here for three days. You're dehydrated and hungry, at least they let you take a piss, and the trunk had a hole somewhere, a bullet wound. More movies, God. So I'm not going to suffocate. However, they stopped the car and there was some muffled fighting. I have no idea what about but I've stopped hyperventilating. What's going on? Oh God! They're going to kill me! Sweating, I tried to keep my mind off of my death, but the minutes went on and nothing happened. Half an hour ticked by and I kicked the trunk. It was a nice old Corvette Piece of Shit. Deep trunk lots of kicking room. After another twenty or so minutes the trunk popped open. No one was a around? Not the mafioso, nobody. Podunk towns. Jesus, I don't need this right now. My arm hurts and I'm hungry. I took a look a the nearby street signs. Oh God. At least it was a humerus break and only needed a sling. North Missouri Street, Potosi. Missouri! Damn it. At least there was a General Store nearby, Casey's? It works. Some nice, good luck. I began to walk across the street to the store. Maybe I can find a phone. Call the police."