Table Read - More Than One Idiot Brother - Act 1 / Part 1

Episode Date: May 4, 2023

ACT 1 / PART 1: In Northern Michigan, DUTCH NYBERG was set to quit the rust-belt town of Twelfth, forever. She’d returned home to care for her dying father, but now that he’s passed, she’s eager for the road. However, on the eve of her departure – she happens upon a bloody, murder scene. The perpetrators – her three idiot brothers: JP, RAIF and MORT. What’s worse for the boys is who they’ve killed – being a senior executive at a company proposing to build the first new factory in Twelfth in over 20 years. ____ MORE THAN ONE IDIOT BROTHER: When an industrialist is murdered in an impoverished Michigan backwater, a misfit veteran must choose between saving her three idiot brothers from life in jail, or escaping her toxic family forever. Written by: Pearse Lehane ____ Follow Table Read (@TableReadPodcastLA) on Instagram for more info! Visit: https://www.tablereadpodcast.com/ Contact: [e-mail]   See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hey, it's Jack Levy, one of the producers on Table Read. First of all, thank you so much to our audience. We've had such an incredible response to the work we're doing. And first and foremost, it goes to the talent, to the writers, to the actors, to the technicians, and the creatives who, as a community, make this an incredible project. Table Read is thrilled to present More Than One Idiot Brother by Pierce Lehane. It's a dark comedy about Dutch Nyberg, who discovers her three idiot brothers have committed a murder.

She risks everything to help them, delving into complex family relationships and moral dilemmas. It explores the potential consequences of decisions made in the heat of the moment and showcases unlikely heroes in challenging situations. Enjoy. What are we waiting on? Can I telephone? Yeah, pass it. It's by telephone. Pass it.

Why couldn't I do this? Let a big old yell right now. Woo! Yeah, baby! She was cute. Oh! Practice of my first ad-lib. Set out!

More Than One Idiot Brother Written by Pierce Lehane Fade In Exterior Intersection Sacramento CCTV Footage Day Mute on an anonymous suburban intersection Mothers with strollers wait by a crosswalk

An SUV stops, allowing the mothers to cross the street. A bicycle courier slows abruptly, zigzags around the mothers, then dashes on. The SUV waits for the mothers to cross over to the other side, then pulls away. A jogger, 30,

runs toward the crosswalk. The jogger is wearing inner ear headphones, looks briefly to her right, crosses immediately onto the intersection. Smash! The jogger has wearing inner ear headphones, looks briefly to her right, crosses immediately onto the intersection. Smash! The jogger has been plowed into by a space-age driverless vehicle. The driverless auto veers suddenly to the left, crashing into a line of parked cars. On the driver's door of the driverless auto, the phoenix-like logo of Thor Industries.

The Phoenix-like logo of Thor Industries. The mothers rush to the jogger as a convoy of support vehicles come to a stop around the accident site. Scientists times ten jump out of the vehicles and approach the scene. Several place their hands to their faces. Not good. Pre-lap, a gavel banging a table. Interior, school gymnasium, 12th, Michigan, night. A proper rowdy town hall.

Plastic chairs, bad coffee, heating busted. 250-plus citizens yelling out, Shame! Sit down! Shut your mouth! As Mayor Gimbel, 50, bashes his gavel furiously. Order! Now! Order! The gymnasium falls silent, except for a skinny infant crying in the arms of its skinny mother. A sign hung over the basketball hoop behind the mayor reads, 12th Michigan welcomes Thor Industries. Strike that phrase from the record. The meeting secretary, 60, scribbles over the words white trash in the

minutes, gives a thumbs up to the town citizens who are recording the meeting on their iPhones. So stricken? Standing in the hall, angrily twisting the red MAGA cap in his hands, Standing in the hall, angrily twisting the red MAGA cap in his hands, Jeb Sando, 50. Then I'll say it again. White trash. A woman in Sacramento is crushed to death under the wheels of a Thor Industries driverless auto and they ban testing across the state of California. And you're asking us to allow it here? Fuck that! California. And you're asking us to allow it here? Fuck that!

Oh, please, my ass! That's not right! Hell no! We're not doing that! That's not even true! Next to Mayor Gimbel at the top table, a man sporting a $40,000 Rolex, Dr. Alex Sandberg, 30, out of towner, no doubt. Dr. Sandberg is scanning Jeb Sandoz's Facebook page, sees images of

Jeb at Daytona, hunting in the woods, ice fishing. On the streets where our kids ride their bikes every day, they see us as disposable pieces of white trash, or they wouldn't be here.

But to have you speak for them, take their side over ours? Shame on you, Mayor Gimbel, for shame. Dr. Sandberg types unreachable in Jeb's file. Also, that woman wasn't killed, Jeb, just paraplegic. But that ain't even the point. It ain't. Jeb throws his arms up to the heavens, sits down. Look folks, you got dead straight roads up here, built wide enough for oversized logging 18 wheelers. Permission is for out of town only. We're here because of how safely this can be done in 12th. I know I don't have

to tell you how many of your father's uncle's husbands worked at the old AMC plant. The truth is, that's what's really on the line here. Jobs coming back to 12th. For the first time in a generation. Couple of heads nod in the room. And, and this is the part you all need to consider for real. The future. The day Thor driverless autos are DOT approved. We know that's coming down the line. Fact. And facts build factories.

That's right. You got a point. Okay. We have a chance here to be a part of Thor Industries' journey. Each take our share of the rewards that will flow from such fellowship. Mayor Gimbel nods at Dr. Sandberg. Dr. Sandberg nods back. Till the factory opens in Tijuana, just like you know it will. Oh, my God!

Bad deal. Mayor Gimbel bangs his gavel, but it doesn't quell the yelling from the opposing sides. Sitting at the back of the hall, Dutch Nyberg, 30. Dutch's skin is outdoorsy red. Her hair is a stranger to serum. Dutch scrapes motor oil from under her fingernails with a biro, wipes the black gunk on the side of her overalls. Who is in the market for a savior? It ain't about the fight left in you, the stakes, nor odds neither.

Can you save yourself? That's the one true question. Our town was dying. We knew it. They knew it. So we came to hear the man's offer, whether we like the taste of surrender or not. Dutch glances around the room, sees the twins, Agnes and Amy Butterworth, 70, sharing a flask of soup in a far corner. Behind the twins, a red light in the dark. A small video camera is recording the meeting. By the camera, scientists times three in lab coats.

Behind the scientists, rocking the Steve Jobs look, dark denims, black turtleneck, crisp goatee, lunar glasses, Dr. Kurt Thor, 30. Dr. Thor sees Dutch looking at him, stares back at her. A selfless benefactor would ask for nothing in return, only salvation don't work that street. Want any kind of hometown future for your kids, here's the deal. Eat daddy's shit or starve. Your choice. Dutch looks from Dr. Thor to Jeb Sando, who just threw his chair at Mayor Gimble, sending Dr. Sandberg into a fleeing panic.

Several citizens restrain Jeb from bum-rushing the stage. Pandemonium. Only what they never understood about us is you can take the country, but you'll never take our pride. Dutch stands without any fuss, makes for the exit. Jeb Sando and Mayor Gimbel are now being held apart. Would go hell's bells if it weren't for the citizens holding them back from each other's throats. Outside the gymnasium, Dutch walks from the gym through the packed parking lot, sees a large tractor clearly driven in from a farm. Dutch climbs into her Ford F Super Duty tow truck. Logo on the driver's door says, Dick Nyberg and Sons, 24-7 recovery.

Dr. Thor steps out from the meeting, observes Dutch as she drives out of the parking lot. A scientist appears over Dr. Thor's shoulder. Dr. Thor looks back, nods at the scientist. Exterior, 12th, Main Street, night, moving. Dutch comes to a stop at a red light. She looks out at the last remaining stores on the strip. Reb's Ammunition, P.D.'s Pawnbroker, remaining stores on the strip. Reb's Ammunition, PD's Pawnbroker, Butterworth's Bar. All the other businesses boarded up. Across the street, the last film advertised on the marquee of the abandoned cinema reads,

White Men Can't Jump. As Dutch scans the corpse of Main Street, a sadness creeps into her eyes. But not the bitter kind. The kind that has fully accepted, without self-pity, time's up. Dutch notices the homeless man, out-of-town brown, 60, drinking a whiskey quart on a bench. Next to him on the seat, a small Jack Russell on a twine lead. Dutch sees a half-pack of cigarettes on her dash. She wraps the outside of her door. Out of town, Brown looks up. Dutch tosses him the pack. He catches it, nods at Dutch. Dutch nods back. Light goes green. Dutch drives away. Exterior, Ford Avenue, 12th, Michigan, night. That twilight street in every

remote town where the sidewalk gives way to gravel, where the last streetlight stands. Being flat Michigan, the roads go only in dead straight lines through deep wilderness woods. Fine hunting country. A man, 30, rides a snow-white bicycle down the center of the trafficless road. Alongside him, a second bicycle in parallel motion, steered with his left hand. One man, two white bicycles. A very neat trick. The streetlights don't quite join up, so the man passes from lamplight into darkness, into light again, back to black. Two quick flashes from the woods, pistol shots no doubt.

Only one bicycle emerges from the darkness, hits the curb, flips over onto the gravel, front wheel spinning. As the bicycle wheel slows to a stop, music fades up. Joan Blondel, My Forgotten Man. Smash cut, super close on the face of a charred, ancient rag doll, cable tied to the front grill of a moving truck. In the tow bay of the truck, a trust recently shot deer. Inside the cab, Dutch Nyberg. Dutch now wearing outdoor hunting attire and a blaze orange singlet. Dutch's headlights catch the man lying in the road next to his bike. Dutch stops the truck. Without having to look, her hand goes in the glove box. She removes a 33,

pops the cylinder. With her eyes still on the man, she touches the bullet casings, feels that the gun is fully loaded. She snaps the gun shut, takes the safety off. Dutch turns off the engine, killing the music, steps out of the cab. Dutch sweeps a flashlight along the road. She spies a small, abandoned cabin, all quiet there. Dutch holds the flashlight above her pistol, military style, as she approaches the man. Six weeks after the town hall, a man was shot in the back. Still ten feet from the man, Dutch sees a rivulet of blood creeping towards her along the asphalt. She clocks the second bicycle down the road. Her head whirs.

She lowers the 33. Dr. Thor? Mr. Thor, is that you? The man's body remains motionless. Dutch walks forward, kneels down, presses two fingers against the man's neck, holds for a moment, takes her hand back.

Deceased, no doubt. A dog barks aggressively, close to the edge of the road. Dutch swings her flashlight pistol towards the barking. Jesus fucking Christ. Standing in the woods, all wearing blaze orange vests, Mort Nyberg, 28, Rafe Nyberg, 35, and J.P. Nyberg, 40. Mort holding the leash on an Alsatian whose lanyard reads, Police Canine.

Nonetheless, these men are clearly not police. The night I found the body, I had to ask, Lord, what rightly were you thinking when you burdened my days with three idiot brothers? Exterior, Edison Lake, Shoreline, Michigan, day. Snowbound woodland. Sound of the wind shushing the raw branches against one another, and a distant woodpecker. A hunting dog trots through the woods, sniffing and snorting at the snow drifts. He stops abruptly by the gnarled roots of a fallen red oak, claws at the earth.

Like everyone who grew up out of town, we kept hunting dogs for hunting. One was this Beagle Cross, Rascal, brave in the deep brush, honest jaw, good hunting dog. Now my kid brother Mort, well he felt something fierce for Rascal. Like he felt it was them two against the entire world. For real. Exterior, Nyberg family home, rural Michigan, evening. A dilapidated two-story colonial-style house on the corner of a T-junction right on the road. A rusting fuel pump stands next to the porch. A bygone, paint-faded sign says, Nyberg General Supplies, established 1901. Supplies, established 1901. Rascal walks towards the Nyberg home.

Mort begged Daddy for Rascal to be allowed to sleep up in his bedroom. The answer, of course, was no. Some rules are not for breaking. Hunting dogs sleep outside. Reveal, Rascal has a three-foot timber rattler in his mouth. Rascal used to bring home all manner of nature he killed in the deep woods. We'd catch that dead stink, then get to searching. Find a baby raccoon jammed in under the boot rack or a jackrabbit moldering in the coal chute. Our neighbor, Abe Guttermsen, had a runt terrier, Sally. Ugh, yappy little bitch.

Interior, Mort's bedroom, day. Dutch Nyberg, ten, and Mort Nyberg, eight, look at the decapitated body of a small terrier on the floor. Rascal dumped her headless torso under Mort's bed one fall. Mort looks at Dutch, who even at age ten has an air of cool authority. Dutch looks at her pale, distraught brother, then at Rascal, who whines guiltily. Exterior, woods by Edison Lake, night.

Dutch, digging a grave by lamplight, checks no one is about, gently places the terrier into the hole, fills in the earth. I buried her out in the woods so no harm would come to Rascal if the truth come out. Grow up poor, you grow up respecting bad luck. Best keep a secret than spin the wheel.

Interior, Nyberg family home, kitchen, evening. Rascal hops through the dog flap and walks past Mama Nyberg, 40, who's too busy gutting fish to notice him. Dutch. Living room, Dutch on a threadbare sofa clutching a raggedy doll watching the log commercial from Ren and Stimpy.

Let's wait for a snack and it's on your back. It's log, log, log. It's log, log. It's you and I love it all. Dutch! Dutch hears her mother's shout, jumps at once off the couch.

In the hallway, Rascal trots up the stairs, just as Dutch emerges from the living room, heading for the kitchen. Dutch's eyes are on the cloth doll hung over her arm, so she doesn't see the rattlesnake in Rascal's mouth. On the upstairs landing, Rascal plays with the snake on the floor, shakes it about, spits it out, growls some, picks it up again. Only this one time, Rascal brought home something that wasn't dead. Despite Rascal's aggression, the rattler doesn't respond.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Dutch standing still, looking at her mother's back. Dutch! In the kitchen, Dutch standing still looking at her mother's back. Dutch! Mama Nyberg turns, sees Dutch standing silently behind her. Light the range. Dutch fills a large cast iron range with kindling. On the upstairs landing, now bored with the game, Rascal leaves the Rattler Bee,

nudges open the door to Mort's bedroom, goes inside. A timber rattler. Free footer. From inside the bedroom, we hear a child's loving voice. In the kitchen, Dutch lights the range, closes the cast iron door. On the upstairs landing, close on the rattlesnake's dead black eye. It was winter. Rascal didn't know this rattler was broom mating. Kind of like hibernation, but for reptiles. The rattler's tongue flickers. Then after a moment, it flips its body over, slides into Mort's bedroom.

In the kitchen, Mama Nyberg dumps the fish guts into a bucket, takes a long drag from the cigarette perched on her lip, looks at Dutch. How old are you, child? Dutch looks at the doll in her arms, knows where this is going, glances up at her mother. Tan, Mama? Tan. Mama Nyberg grabs the doll with a blood-soaked hand, but Dutch doesn't let go. Mama, no, please!

Mama Nyberg wrenches the doll from Dutch's hands. When I want something, You give it to me Right away, but I need to look after her. Oh Do you now? Yes? well Mia can't move her legs at all when she was a little girl. She had polio It ain't her fault mama Nyberg looks at the blood-stained doll in her hand fault? Mama Nyberg looks at the blood-stained doll in her hand, slaps Dutch across the face with it,

opens the range and tosses the doll into the flames, slams the door closed. Better this way then, huh? Tears well in Dutch's eyes. She's about to speak when a horrific scream pierces the air. Mama Nyberg rushes for the stairs. Dutch watches her mother dash out of the kitchen, but her eyes turn at once to the closed stove door. More screaming from upstairs. Rascal barking. Dutch looks again towards the stairs, but her eyes are torn back to the range. Backyard.

Dutch bursts out the back door, throws herself headlong into the snow. Mort screaming from the upstairs bedroom. Mort was eight years old. Skinny little thing. Reveal. Dutch has pulled her doll from the range. She's using the snow to put the flames out. Mort screaming from inside the house. Rascal barking. Boy, I bought my beautiful boy!

There! I see you! There you are! Crap! Crap! Crap! Got you, devil. Got you good. Rascal barking. Crack. Rascal whines. Crack. No more barking.

Only Mort screaming. Dutch looks at the back door, then at her doll in the snow, then at the red raw burns on her hands. Mort fell into a venom coma for three days. When he woke up, he weren't the same. Short version, my little brother Mort was from that day forward snake bite stupid.

Dutch picks up her doll, runs for the woods. As for my two older brothers, JP and Rafe, I'll get to their particulars presently. Exterior intersection, Sacramento, CCTV footage, day. Mothers with strollers exit the crosswalk. A jogger runs toward the intersection. Her name was Dahlia Regina, a lawyer from London, England. Dahlia looks to her right, crosses onto the intersection.

Smash! Dahlia has been run over by a snow-white driverless vehicle. Turns out, English lawyer ladies are about the most expensive roadkill there is. Had it been an undocumented or a homeless, no biggie, no doubt. Scientists times ten jump out of the support vehicles.

Thor program wouldn't have come to twelve, but she was a lawyer from London, England, who looked the wrong way on account of the British driving the wrong side of the road, and on such twists. Exterior, rural road number one, Michigan, moving. Close on, the spinning gyro on the roof of a car, the unmistakable telltale sign of a driverless automobile. Reveal, a convoy of eight support vehicles zipping along the road behind the snow-white, driverless automobile. The convoy passes a road sign.

Welcome to 12th Michigan, population 322 plus you. Exterior rural road number two, Michigan moving. Super close on Dutch's charred childhood doll, now cable-tied to the grill of Dutch's tow truck. Inside the cab, Dutch sees the convoy thundering down the road towards her, then watches in her wing mirror as they speed away into the distance. Exterior, abandoned AMC car plant, day moving. Dutch drives past the vast wasteland that is the shuttered AMC plant. A shabby poster hoarding introduces the 1988 AMC Eagle for the tough American. Inside the perimeter fence, Dutch sees an army of technicians

moving between half a dozen snow-white shipping containers. The Thor Industries Phoenix logo on a massive flag over the site. Same logo all over the NASA-esque technical center. By the entrance gate to the shuttered plant, armed guards now stand watch, also walking the perimeter with guard dogs. Dutch drives past the twins, Agnes and Amy Butterworth, sitting on camping stools by the side of the road next to a steam-spewing Chevy station wagon. Dutch pulls over. Smash cut.

Dutch working in the guts of the Butterworth's engine, oiled up to her elbows. Amy and Agnes drinking soup from a flask. Ain't JP older than you? Yeah. But you got your daddy's truck when he passed. Not JP. Uh-huh.

How's that? Fought him for it. Dutch triggers the ignition from inside the engine. The motor catches. Black smoke coughs from the exhaust. Engine dies. At that exact moment, the convoy drives past again, right through the plume of dark, oily smoke. The entire convoy turns into the AMC factory. Dutch watches as a swarm of engineers approach the driverless auto as it comes to a halt in the center of the tech area.

Everybody stands aside as Dr. Kurt Thor approaches the scene. Saw on the news that black kids shot by the police in Flint at the weekend weren't a black kid. Turned out it was a white boy made up like he was black on his way to a frat party. So they're saying, hmm, Lee's gonna have to take more care in the future, certainly. Dutch stares pointedly at Amy. What?

If you're asking what, Agnes Butterworth, you know what. Dutch looks away from the sisters, tries the engine again. No catch this time, just the ignition turning. What kind of fight was it? Between you and J.P.? Was it guns or knives or... or what? Smash cut.

Exterior, Nyberg family home, night. By the front porch, Dutch and J.P. Nyberg, 40, in a brutal, bloody fight. The weapon of choice? Ice hockey sticks. J.P. is taller and broader than Dutch, and he easily smashes Dutch to the ground, her stick flying from her hands. J.P. lifts his hockey stick over his head. Freeze frame. Idiot brother number two, JP. JP didn't need no snake bite to get stupid. JP was idiot born.