[h3]Steven Diggs - Punk Table[/h3]
As the fingers closed around his throat, Steven Diggs had a single thought.

What a dumbass.

Who the fuck stumbles into Punk territory and starts demanding things of their most feared enforcer? What kind of fucking Preppie doesn't just send a servant? Steve had been in a good mood. Key word being 'had'. Past tense. He would have just let the boys keep her restrained while he asked what it was that she wanted. Hell, he might have even humoured her! With a catch, of course. But of course, she'd taken the stupidly violent approach and Steve's good mood evaporated. It was time to thrash a preppie, and even as the fingers closed around his throat, [url=http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/11113/111138237/3612124-2550621555-img05.jpg]Steve's grin was manic[/url].

Not a single one of the Punks had heard her threat, by virtue of the astonishingly loud Polish metal band currently blaring from Steve's toolbox. He'd wanted to play Van Halen but some idiot had shuffled his music library the other day and he still hadn't found the prankster. Probably Charro. Not a single one would hear her sing either. Tch. How dare she take the form of his beloved Danica? Steve wasn't aroused. He was [i]insulted[/i].

The Siren got halfway through something ego-stroking (Steve wasn't listening) right about the time Steve's fist collided with her face. Steven Diggs had not gotten this far in life by being squeamish about hitting girls, nor by being weak. All the girls talked about his body, ripped with military muscle, and all the other Punks talked about his inability to stay down in a fight. Almost simultaneous with the punch, his other hand pried the fingers away from his throat, breaking them in the process. One didn't lay a hostile finger on Steven Diggs, The Machine Head, and get away with it. Finally, his foot on the table lifted and kicked, sending the Siren flying away from him and on to the harsh concrete. There were a few crunching sounds, then silence.

He'd knocked the bitch out. Good. With a press of a button, the music abruptly stopped. "[color=00aeef]Fuckin' gag th'bitch, yo,[/color]" he ordered, and two of the random Punks at the table fastened a gag around her mouth. Steve, meanwhile, had retrieved a small box of bandaids from his toolbox and was patching up his little neck wounds. He could have let them bleed, but it was unsanitary. "[color=00aeef]An' don'forget t'bind 'er hands. Take 'er back to th'prep table an' just dump 'er there. S'a warnin'. They best pray they got a medic, y'dig?[/color]" The two lackeys nodded and scurried off, dragging the broken and bleeding form of the siren with them.

That bit of work done, Steve dropped his ass back on to the bench. He'd already gotten to wail on someone today. Putting his hands behind his head and inadvertently showing off his tank biceps, he let out a happy sigh. Winter break was gonna be gooooood.