If these jackasses really wanted people to avoid this part of the rig, they wouldn't cover it in tantalizing "hiding something cool" warning signs and yellow tape. This is exactly the sort of thing Mac has to be aware of, as head of security at a small business; the more you advertise that there's something to hide in your secret annexes, the more you tempt people to try and find out. Mac's of the opinion that the best defense is a good distraction, that you should make your private units look boring instead of secretive, and that's why for five months Paddy's had a strip of duct tape with TAXES written on it slapped over the back office door sign.
Irregardless, Mac did go looking for whatever it is they're hiding down here, not because he particularly wants anything but mostly just because he wants to be in-the-know. His friends aren't here and apparently it's "just not in the cards, Mr. McDonald" to sit around drinking, which means that most of Mac's go-tos for killing the hours are cut off. He's an active, savvy guy, he needs something to do, and solving a mystery is...well, kind of for nerds and pretty lonely as a solo venture, but better than nothing.
Except now he's lost, having gone through something he thinks was a hangar, then an absolutely dispiriting wardrobe area of identical uniforms, and somehow through a kitchen? And now he's in an office wing with security cameras all over the place. Mac waves at the cameras, then shrugs, trying to indicate "where the fuck am I?" by facial expression and body language. He does that for maybe thirty seconds before deciding it's a loss and looking for another way to summon aid or, even better, conjure up a clever solution he can brag about later, after he comes up with a more exciting story than "I got lost".
He looks around and the answer just comes to him. He can't help it, some people are just lucky that way. He didn't ask to be a problemsolver, but heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Mac's fairly certain that it's required by law to have little exit signs that light up in case of an emergency, so he gets started on putting together sufficient tinder for a trashcan fire. He grabs papers off a desk and crunches them on into the wastebasket. He hopes none of this shit is important.
2. NO REST FOR THE WEARY
It's only that night that things feel overwhelming, as if, so long as Mac stays vertical and out of bed, his head is up over the sense of unease. Back home, if he or Dennis were having difficulty sleeping, they'd wake up the other and sit around watching reality TV and drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, comforted by the brainless shouting of unrelatable rich bitches and the presence of another person. For obvious reasons, none of that's an option here; the only show on television appears to be safety PSAs about wearing helmets in the hangar, and the voice of the actress getting hit in the head by a falling wrench is such a perfect blend of peppy and monotone that it's anxiety-inducing.
Mac slips on a robe and the rubber slippers they were all outfitted with - under very emphatic warnings about athlete's foot - and pokes his head into the hall. No doors, just open rooms and the sounds of sleep rolling out of a few of them, the snores and grunts and thoughtless farts and sleep-talking grumbles. Mac doesn't know which room to go to. The irony is that being surrounded by open doors to thirty-ish other people is much more lonely than sharing an apartment with one.
Well, no preference just means that if the first person he wakes up in cranky, he can just try numbers two through thirty-whateverish. He pops into one of the rooms and pokes the sleeping figure in the bed, who surely won't be alarmed by a guy is his forties letting himself into their room and waking them up with a: "hey, you awake?"
3. ON THE RUN
When he tells people about this later, he's going to say there were forty chairs, and that they were basically thrones. Maybe electric chairs, a bunch of forty - no, fifty - electric chairs, like some nightmarish Fantasia crap with the broom. He has to be flexible with the details here; it's hard to make "nearly killed by chairs" sound badass. Especially when it's a pack of just three folding chairs yapping and snapping at you when you're barricaded in a supply closet.
He made the fool decision to try and crack the door open and make an escape, and he nearly lost his fingers for the trouble. He's pretty sure he's going to have to do that thing with the tape and the popsicle sticks Charlie did to him when he got his hand stuck in the schoolbus door, way back when - but home first aid is contingent on actually getting out of this supply closet. He slips the handle of a broom between the door and the doorframe, trying to spear one of the folding chairs like a fish.
"Yah! Hah! Get away, you little bitch!" The broom handle makes clanging sounds against the folding chairs, but the chairs only seem to take this as a grievous insult, as they redouble their snapping and crashing into the door. Mac pokes a squirt bottle of cleaner out and sprays one of the chairs, which doesn't appear to do anything either. "Help! Someone help!"
It's less than dignified to shout for rescue like this, but at the moment Mac doesn't care. On account of the deadly chairs.
Mac | It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
If these jackasses really wanted people to avoid this part of the rig, they wouldn't cover it in tantalizing "hiding something cool" warning signs and yellow tape. This is exactly the sort of thing Mac has to be aware of, as head of security at a small business; the more you advertise that there's something to hide in your secret annexes, the more you tempt people to try and find out. Mac's of the opinion that the best defense is a good distraction, that you should make your private units look boring instead of secretive, and that's why for five months Paddy's had a strip of duct tape with TAXES written on it slapped over the back office door sign.
Irregardless, Mac did go looking for whatever it is they're hiding down here, not because he particularly wants anything but mostly just because he wants to be in-the-know. His friends aren't here and apparently it's "just not in the cards, Mr. McDonald" to sit around drinking, which means that most of Mac's go-tos for killing the hours are cut off. He's an active, savvy guy, he needs something to do, and solving a mystery is...well, kind of for nerds and pretty lonely as a solo venture, but better than nothing.
Except now he's lost, having gone through something he thinks was a hangar, then an absolutely dispiriting wardrobe area of identical uniforms, and somehow through a kitchen? And now he's in an office wing with security cameras all over the place. Mac waves at the cameras, then shrugs, trying to indicate "where the fuck am I?" by facial expression and body language. He does that for maybe thirty seconds before deciding it's a loss and looking for another way to summon aid or, even better, conjure up a clever solution he can brag about later, after he comes up with a more exciting story than "I got lost".
He looks around and the answer just comes to him. He can't help it, some people are just lucky that way. He didn't ask to be a problemsolver, but heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Mac's fairly certain that it's required by law to have little exit signs that light up in case of an emergency, so he gets started on putting together sufficient tinder for a trashcan fire. He grabs papers off a desk and crunches them on into the wastebasket. He hopes none of this shit is important.
2. NO REST FOR THE WEARY
It's only that night that things feel overwhelming, as if, so long as Mac stays vertical and out of bed, his head is up over the sense of unease. Back home, if he or Dennis were having difficulty sleeping, they'd wake up the other and sit around watching reality TV and drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, comforted by the brainless shouting of unrelatable rich bitches and the presence of another person. For obvious reasons, none of that's an option here; the only show on television appears to be safety PSAs about wearing helmets in the hangar, and the voice of the actress getting hit in the head by a falling wrench is such a perfect blend of peppy and monotone that it's anxiety-inducing.
Mac slips on a robe and the rubber slippers they were all outfitted with - under very emphatic warnings about athlete's foot - and pokes his head into the hall. No doors, just open rooms and the sounds of sleep rolling out of a few of them, the snores and grunts and thoughtless farts and sleep-talking grumbles. Mac doesn't know which room to go to. The irony is that being surrounded by open doors to thirty-ish other people is much more lonely than sharing an apartment with one.
Well, no preference just means that if the first person he wakes up in cranky, he can just try numbers two through thirty-whateverish. He pops into one of the rooms and pokes the sleeping figure in the bed, who surely won't be alarmed by a guy is his forties letting himself into their room and waking them up with a: "hey, you awake?"
3. ON THE RUN
When he tells people about this later, he's going to say there were forty chairs, and that they were basically thrones. Maybe electric chairs, a bunch of forty - no, fifty - electric chairs, like some nightmarish Fantasia crap with the broom. He has to be flexible with the details here; it's hard to make "nearly killed by chairs" sound badass. Especially when it's a pack of just three folding chairs yapping and snapping at you when you're barricaded in a supply closet.
He made the fool decision to try and crack the door open and make an escape, and he nearly lost his fingers for the trouble. He's pretty sure he's going to have to do that thing with the tape and the popsicle sticks Charlie did to him when he got his hand stuck in the schoolbus door, way back when - but home first aid is contingent on actually getting out of this supply closet. He slips the handle of a broom between the door and the doorframe, trying to spear one of the folding chairs like a fish.
"Yah! Hah! Get away, you little bitch!" The broom handle makes clanging sounds against the folding chairs, but the chairs only seem to take this as a grievous insult, as they redouble their snapping and crashing into the door. Mac pokes a squirt bottle of cleaner out and sprays one of the chairs, which doesn't appear to do anything either. "Help! Someone help!"
It's less than dignified to shout for rescue like this, but at the moment Mac doesn't care. On account of the deadly chairs.