[h3]Steven Diggs - Punk Table[/h3]
"[color=00aeef]'Ay Charro, stop bein shit, y'all![/color]" was the call-out from behind Bronze Eyes. There stood the mechanic, and probably the scariest mawfugga in the Punk clique. It was Steven Diggs, the Machine Head, the Tank, the Fixer, the Mood Killer, wearing his patriotic red white and blue coveralls, coated in a layer of grease and dust and he had his toolbox with him. "[color=00aeef]Mawfuggin' crazy static girl be sleepin' own th' job, dawg. AGAIN! Bitch we ain't got taaaahme to fuck around, yo.[/color]"

Steve dropped his toolbox on the table with an ear-cracking thud. It was not a small nor light piece of kit, and dramatic minds such as those of the ENTERTAINERS! might decide to get bombastic and think it was an earthquake or something. As it stood, though, back in the lack of reality, heads merely turned as Steven Diggs marked his territory before sitting down. While he was no leader or anything, he was something of the muscle for the gang, and anyone who wanted to get to the Punk leaders had to get through him.

"[color=00aeef]'Ay Static,[/color]" he drawled, referring to the drooling sleepyhead by the mocking name everyone had picked up for her. "[color=00aeef]Where th'FUCK is fuckin' Loose Lacey? Bitch better be here like, fuckin' ten minutes ago dawg. An' ay! Put on th' NASCAR! Ah wanna see how mah Danica be doin', yo.[/color]" Many a girl had attempted to get into the pants of the Punk enforcer, but all had failed for some reason or another. Maybe it was the hostility. Maybe it was the way he kept suggesting they needed to use four shotgun pellets, some whiskey and a rubber hand to treat their crabs. Maybe it was the gigantic poster of Danica Patrick on the wall of his room. Who knew?