[Do you know what self doubt is? Self doubt is that sickly feeling that crawls around your gut when you think maybe you've done something rather stupid. It's putting greed, hope and wanderlust over the familiar, only to belatedly remember that the unknown isn't necessarily your friend. Self doubt is the naive younger sibling of regret.
The party isn't the party Tuco envisioned he'd be attending. Granted, that's largely because it's not a party he could have pictured in the first place; his frame of reference begins and ends with smoky saloons and dank cathouses, but... no, it's more than that. It's like the place has taken every worry he's dismissed over the past couple of weeks, and turned it into one very visceral, concentrated blob. A blob he now feels trapped in. Where before, he simply had to process that there were monstruos with faces like a pair of slapped bollocks, he's now faced with the fact that they're everywhere, and they're better dressed than him. The unfamiliar "music" doesn't help, either, and same goes for the jumble of letters that supposedly acts as a menu. The place screams of some kind of tacky ostentatiousness he can never hope to understand.
...Of course, that doesn't mean he's not enjoying himself. For every blight causing him to curl his upper lip, something (or someone) else has him grinning like he's just seen a deputy on fire. He's also long since abandoned secrecy over comfort, as evidenced by the fact that his mask has been pushed right up to his hairline; his face was starting to sweat, and the way he sees it, it's hard to get stinking drunk when your mouth is covered.]
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The party isn't the party Tuco envisioned he'd be attending. Granted, that's largely because it's not a party he could have pictured in the first place; his frame of reference begins and ends with smoky saloons and dank cathouses, but... no, it's more than that. It's like the place has taken every worry he's dismissed over the past couple of weeks, and turned it into one very visceral, concentrated blob. A blob he now feels trapped in. Where before, he simply had to process that there were monstruos with faces like a pair of slapped bollocks, he's now faced with the fact that they're everywhere, and they're better dressed than him. The unfamiliar "music" doesn't help, either, and same goes for the jumble of letters that supposedly acts as a menu. The place screams of some kind of tacky ostentatiousness he can never hope to understand.
...Of course, that doesn't mean he's not enjoying himself. For every blight causing him to curl his upper lip, something (or someone) else has him grinning like he's just seen a deputy on fire. He's also long since abandoned secrecy over comfort, as evidenced by the fact that his mask has been pushed right up to his hairline; his face was starting to sweat, and the way he sees it, it's hard to get stinking drunk when your mouth is covered.]