Table Read - More Than One Idiot Brother - Act 1 / Part 2

Episode Date: May 8, 2023

ACT 1 / PART 2: 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.

Exterior, police station, 12th day. Cell footage taken by J.P. and Conrad Felix, 25. Conrad sporting a ginger jowl beard and camo dungarees. They're recording the scene outside the police station on their cell phones as they prepare to enter the building. J.P. wearing an assistant manager's Taco Bell uniform. Behind them, a police vehicle marked K-9 unit. As they converse, a dog intermittently winds from inside the van. J.P. Nyberg here, chief warden, the Michigan chapter of Fourth Amendment Citizens Audit Action Committee. Hello, brothers. And beaches. Hey!

Conrad is white, but talks like a Latino gangbanger. Hey. Respect. Don't make me call your mama. Tell tales and shit. Shoot, that's it. She never even answers her cell phone when she's napping. Can we just fucking do this?

Hey, dog. Chill. Now we know our channel's been soft. We haven't even been posting regularly, and that's on us. But we're up in this beach now. Fourth Amendment America. Woo! JP and Conrad make their way inside the police station. JP is a neighborhood activist with a hard-on for the Fourth Amendment,

the part of the Constitution that demands probable cause for a police stop and search. Only, that's hard to test when you're on your lunch break. So JP zeroes in on a right implied by the Fourth that can be tested on your lunch break for the edification of your 39 YouTube subscribers every other Friday. JP and Conrad now at reception. JP rings the desk bell. Excuse me. I'm an independent journalist. I'm here today to make an anonymous records request. Sitting at a desk at the back of the office, Sheriff Taylor, 50, an old school, seen-it-all

county veteran. Good afternoon, JP, Conrad. My Fourth Amendment violation right there, anonymous records request denied, but it just stopped 0-5-0? Your names won't be on the paperwork, boys. own? Your names won't be on the paperwork, boys. That's what makes it anonymous. Now, if y'all want to make an anonymous request where you gentlemen are also unknown to the sheriff's department, you need to find one that don't have a sheriff up there whose daughter went to middle school with y'all. No need to get antsy, officer. Day comes, you're on the wrong side of the law. You'll be thanking us for this work, I guarantee you. What do you want this time? General orders for the station and the vehicle numbers

to which all deputies are assigned in the current shift cycle. Sheriff Taylor shouts out to a back office. Carol, what car are you in today? Deputy Carol Vagel, 25, pops her head through the door. The 4x4. General orders are on the bulletin board by the front door. You can read them on your way out. I also need copies of all body cam footage from the past 48 hours.

It being my human right to request. Conrad, your mama doing okay? Yeah, she's sleeping a lot. But wait, nah, nah, essay. We're journalists here demanding to be dealt with as anonymous, motherless citizens. Can you tell her? Anonymously.

I was asking after her. Hey! You want to suck on a $100 million lawsuit for denial of our civil liberties? Go ahead. We are failing freedom. The civil rights of every U.S. citizen are now under attack from the same elites that smashed black. Motherfucker! What?

Goddamn battery died. Fuck! Damn, this is... Exterior, Nyberg family home, night. The freeze frame of J.P. with the hockey stick over his head. Daddy didn't leave a will. J.P. was stuck on assistant manager at the drive-thru Taco Bell on I-75 going on seven years. Daddy's truck was J.P JP's ticket out of that bullshit.

So, hockey sticks at sundown. Resume real time. JP beats on Dutch hard with his hockey stick. Dutch rolls to the side, grabs her stick, gets back to her feet. JP immediately knocks Dutch back on her ass. Crunch. Dutch spits blood onto the ground. Out of the corner of her eye,

she clocks the bottom step off the porch stoop. Say mercy, sister. Dutch crawls towards the porch. JP kicks Dutch in the ribs. She rolls over onto her back, gasping for air. Say it! Twisting her body through the pain, Dutch gets back to her knees, crawls again for the porch step.

Clearly exhausted and beaten, Dutch collapses next to the edge of the stoop, looks up at her brother with contempt. J.P. points his hockey stick at Dutch's head. Don't make me do what I don't want to do, but I swear to God I will. Fuck you, dumbass motherfucker! JP raises his hockey stick like a battle axe, charges Dutch. Dutch surreptitiously jams the blade of her stick against the porch step. Just as JP is about to smash her skull open, she suddenly raises the shaft of the stick right up. Too late to alter course, JP runs right into the rigid stick. Crunch! Deep, deep in his crotch.

JP's face creases. He collapses to his knees, balls in hands. Dutch stands, grabs JP's hair, so lifting his chin higher. Dutch takes careful aim, then smack! Dutch punches J.P. right on the edge of his chin. J.P. falls unconscious. Mort Nyberg, 28, giggles inanely from the house stoop, sitting next to Mort, a beautiful black Labrador. Rascal broke Mort's heart twice. Once for his passing, second for how he blamed himself for it. My brother hadn't smiled,

not once in 19 years. But then he found Chancer, the black lab. A stray, just like Mort. By giving Chancer a home, Mort found his way back to happiness. Maybe even peace. Rafe Nyberg, 35, impossibly handsome, even in a grubby muscle shirt, tosses the keys of the truck to Dutch. She catches them first time, despite her hands being wet with blood. Rafe, a boy too pretty to be smart. There is such a thing, even out here. No need to work hard at all if you be Rafe. Just turn up. Pre-lap thrash metal,

live cover of Ring of Fire. Interior, Rusty's Lounge, rural Michigan night. The room is heaving, all eyes fixed on stage. The crowd is disproportionately made up of red-faced young women who've been moshing their very sweaty backs all night, hard. Rafe at the mic in front of his band, the Ungrateful Dead, who are smashing a shred metal cover of Ring of Fire. The band stop abruptly. The crowd go berserk. Let me remind you why we're here tonight. Listen now.

Constant woo and yeah hollers from the crowd. A constant, woo and yeah, hollers from the crowd. Rafe sees Deirdre Kane, 21, in the audience. He's in full Rasputin mode and knows it. Deirdre stares at Rafe. He feels the power of looking right into her soul. The show is the animal. I am the animal. No one is the animal.

You can never be the animal. You can only ever be the animal. I am the animal. No one is the animal. You can never be the animal. You can only ever be the animal. So you see it now? How could you see? How could you not see? How could you ever know? It's the only thing you've ever known, that the animal can only be the fucking animal. Rafe drops his arm. The band immediately hit the chorus. Smash cut. Rusty's lounge, restroom, minutes later. Deirdre straddled around Rafe as he fucks her against the wall of a doorless stall. Customers come and go like this is the thousandth time they've seen this bullshit in Rusty's.

Fuck me. Fuck me, Rafe. Come inside me. Behind him, Connor Kane, 25, comes into the restroom. Jesus, Rafe, that's my wife. Rafe carries on fucking Deirdre, glances around. I know, man. Just need another minute.

A customer bumps Connor's shoulder as he walks out of the restroom. Connor just stands there, numb and confused. Fuck me right, Daddy! Come on! Connor steals himself, heads back into the bar. Some people don't know they got a glow about them, like God be shining a golden spotlight right down on them. Only Rafe weren't one of those. He knew all about the glow. Hit slow-mo. Close on Rafe's translucent blue eyes.

When a girl got with Rafe, crazy as this sounds, he knew he made her feel like she was famous. Resume real time. I'm coming, Daddy. I'm coming. Oh, fuck. He's got time. I'm coming, Daddy! I'm coming! Oh, fuck! You got me! I'm coming! Connor bursts back into the restrooms, smashes a bar stool over Rafe's head. Rafe falls, cracks his head off the bowl.

Rafe is out cold, blood dripping from his ear. Motherfucker! Deirdre jumps to her feet, kicks and punches Connor. If you could make me cum, shit like this wouldn't happen! Deidre pulls down her miniskirt, storms out.

Connor unzips, takes a piss on Rafe's chest. Rafe is deaf in his left ear. Not from ten years of playing his god-awful music in shithole bars, but for raw fucking chicken heads in Rusty's bathroom. In plain sight of their meth-head menfolk, first Thursday of every month. Exterior, Nyberg family home night. Rafe smiling at Dutch, shaking his head with a mixture of shock and admiration.

Rafe could have been somebody. He had that on all of us, no doubt. Goddamn, girl, you're something else. You really are a force. Dutch looks from Rafe to the front stoop, sees Mama Nyberg, 60. Mama Nyberg looks at Dutch with cool contempt. Mama Nyberg.

Dog slayer. Snake killer killer, burner of little dolls. It was she, if you're asking, who come up with the idea of how the issue of Daddy's truck was to be settled. What she wanted, really, was to watch me catch a Bertuzzi beaten from the comfort of her front stoop. You're welcome, Mama. Dutch removes from her pocket a raggedy-ass charred doll and two cable ties. She looks right at her mother, then attaches the doll to the front grill of the truck. Mama Nyberg tosses her cigarette into the road, turns and goes back into the house.

Mort approaches Dutch, followed devotedly by the black lab. I need to go into town tonight. Um, can I borrow your truck? Dutch looks from Mort to the black lab. The lab whines. Interior, Dutch's truck, rural road, day, moving. Dutch driving, Amy and Agnes sharing the passenger seat. Did he live?

What? JP, did he live? Amy Butterworth, you asking me if I killed my own brother? I ain't seen him around. You live out by the woods. Could bury whoever you like, whenever. Never be found. Not ever. And there's Edison Lake, if you didn't have time to dig a hole.

I mean, you got it all up your way. Exterior, rural shack, day, moving. Dutch's tow truck pulls up outside Agnes and Amy's ramshackle cabin. Half a dozen cats wandering about the property. How much we owe you? You didn't call me out. No charge. Agnes opens a small cloth purse, takes out what paper money she has, hands it to Dutch. Eight dollars. Gas money.

Agnes, I ain't taking. You can take the money. Or take a lady's pride. What's it to be? Dutch hesitates, takes the eight dollars. Dutch pulls a 2000 era Nokia 3310 from her pocket, starts a text message. Just seeing if Jeb can come out, take a look at your Chevy. Just an estimate, I think, for now. Nothing to think on. Man owes me a favor. I'm calling it in. End of. Bless you, Dutch. Your mama must be right proud of you. Dutch clearly doesn't have an answer to that remark, so she just nods at Amy as she makes to get out of the truck. You'll be going again soon, hmm? Back into the army? No, I'm done with that. You come back to look after your daddy at the end, I heard.

I did. Interior, Nyberg family home. Bedroom, night. Flashback. Dick Nyberg, 65, in his dying bed. Drip in his arm. Dutch sitting next to her father, reading from a dog-eared copy of Charles Portis' True Grit. Dick's eyes brighten as he listens.

He smiles and shakes his head. Dutch smiles back at him, continues reading. He's gone. Must be six months. Why are you still abiding, child? Back in the truck, Dutch flips down the sun visor, hands Agnes a postcard for Chesterman Beach on Vancouver Island, showing a sunset trail ride of around ten horses and riders. Friday come, that's me.

Trail riding vacation? Taking a steak in a ranch. Been saving up a long time. Dutch smiles as she fingers the edges of the postcard. Well, there's something I ain't seen in a long while. A smile on your face. Good luck, Dutch. As Agnes gets out of the truck, Dutch reaches back to the control panel over her shoulder. She pulls a red lever, releasing the 15-pound hook on the toe arm,

thus gently lowering the station wagon. Dutch watches Agnes and Amy as they approach their cabin, the cats running out to greet them. America is a promise, no doubt. Only a promise less often kept. Who is in the market for a savior? Poor, old, white women? You're goddamn right. Exterior trailer park evening. Dutch parks up next to her trailer, takes a large bag of groceries from the passenger seat, steps out. Dutch puts the grocery bag on a camping table next to a large bowl, a weighing scales, and a stack of Tupperware.

She makes to open the door when she sees a peculiar sight. Dr. Kurt Thor cycling a white bicycle through the trailer park with a second bicycle controlled by his left hand. One man, two snow white bicycles. A very neat trick. Dr. Thor stops outside a distant trailer, knocks on the door. Dutch walks into her trailer, comes back out with a beer. From the grocery bag, Dutch removes a seven-pound sack of peanuts, five boxes of honey smacks, and eight cans of hog fat. From her vantage point, she can now see a boy, 11, taking the second bicycle from Dr. Thor.

Dutch can't hear what Mom, 30, says, but there's no need. The boy jumps on the bike and cycles past Dutch. Dutch puts on a pair of disposable gloves, starts mixing the peanuts, honey smacks, and hog fat in the large bowl. Dutch observes as mom shakes Dr. Thor's hand. Dr. Thor gets on his bike and cycles off. When he sees Dutch, he pulls up. Hello there. Eamon? The boy cycles past, makes to high-five Dr. Thor. Dr. Thor high-fives the boy as he cycles away.

Boom! Mr. Thor, all right! As the boy cycles off, Dr. Thor looks at Dutch. Outreach. His father's a security guard up at the old AMC plant. Uh-huh. Cold one inside. Dr. Thor leans his bike against Dutch's truck, goes into inside Dutch's trailer. Dr. Thor absorbs Dutch's Spartan existence. Laundry folded in small, neat piles. Her.308 Winchester on a wall rack,

cans of Tannerite targets, a framed picture of Dutch in uniform riding a horse from her days in the Army's caisson platoon, a beautifully maintained saddle on a custom wall stand, two dog-eared books behind the photo, Charles Portis's True true grit, and a translation of de Maupassant's Boule de Suif. Thor picks up Boule de Suif, looks back to the trailer door, clearly unsure how Dutch and de Maupassant go together. Outside the trailer,

Dr. Thor comes down the steps, beer in hand. Opener there? Twist-off. Kurt opens the bottle with his hand, sits opposite Dutch, who continues to mix the bowl in silence. Michelin star cuisine, no doubt. Michigan Farm Bureau pay $4 a pound. Badger cake. Cost you...

21 cents a pound. That's a good return. Not exactly scalable. They test wild badgers for TB. Year-round. Humane traps. Scale. Don't come into it. Guaranteed is what matters around here. You were in the service. Didn't have to come back here after you got out. No. Why then?

Same reason as you. It ain't Sacramento. Dr. Thor and Dutch look fearlessly at one another. You left the town hall early the other night. Without saying a word. First one out. I know a song half sung. Dutch places the badger cake in the Tupperware, weighs the contents.

When measuring just over one pound, she closes the lids. You're a Nyberg. Your family has been in these parts for over a hundred years. You're old, Twelfth. Word carries weight. I'm sorry. Does that mean I get a bicycle or not? That's funny, but you don't get a bicycle. How's that? You're in Dr. Sandberg's town resident file is unreachable. Am I now? However, I believe you also have the singular quality that will save you in the world that's coming. Being? An absolute lack of self-pity. Careful, Doctor. What plays for flattery in one parish don't always flatter in another. This town can thrive, Dutch. It has a unique opportunity

here. Won't get another, and I know you know that. What do you want from me, Dr. Thor? I want you to use your voice. Do you now? I need to get back into towns and cities. To do that, I first need to succeed here in 12th. I need the people of this town to tell the DOT that what we did there wasn't just safe, but necessary. Four and a half million Americans drive for a living, Dr. Thor. Cabs, teamsters, bus drivers, and the rest. How necessary is it to steal their jobs away anyway? Do tell.

You root for Wall Street types, Dutch? Bankers and the like? Heart bleeds for them. In 2020, for the first time in the history of Wall Street, the volume of passive equity assets managed by computer algorithms was greater than those managed by human traders across a $4.3 trillion spread. Guardian Gecko is dead, Dutch. Only the SEC didn't get him. It was a crew of 19-year-old freelance coders from Nairobi, making $2.38 an hour. Wall Street or Walmart checkout, there's no difference.

If you can be replaced by a machine this century, you will. It's not personal. Just a matter of time. A race between tech billionaires for the wages of America. And I bet you sleep like a fucking baby. Dutch tosses the mixing gloves, lights a cigarette. This is the first time Dr. Thor has seen Dutch's hands. The raw burn scars across her fingers and palms. Dr. Thor stares at

her wounds. Dutch sees him, seeing. Workplace accident? No. And the service then? Nope. Sorry, didn't mean to pry. It ain't that, doctor. See, it weren't no accident. Dr. Thor takes a moment to let this sink in. Help me to help your people help themselves. A Thor factory in 12th, it could totally happen. I ain't lying about that, Dutch. Lie to me or don't makes no difference. No defeat without surprise.

Nothing is certain. I'll not speak for you or spy for you, because that's really what you want. Ask me to be your Benedict Arnold ever again, and we'll see what happens. Doctor. Dr. Thor Stans gets on his bicycle. 104 people die on America's roads every day. And autonomous autos pro rata hit 103 deaths a day.

Overnight insurance firms will price human-driven vehicles out of the market. This is certain. As to necessary, how many jobs are worth a single human life, Dodge? My vehicles are going to save lives over time. Thousands of them. Only a man who believed in the safety of his driverless autos would personally give bicycles to kids to ride the self-same roads. Nice story for the deity. You tell the boy's mother that's the real reason he has a new

mountain bike? Dutch, help me to win here. I guarantee you'll never have to drive that Iron Age tank ever again. Oh my god, did you hear that? Oh yes. Wow, you're really upset at this guy. I apparently am. Oh, Jesus. Okay. Dutch looks at her father's tow truck, her doll in the grill. She puts her gloves back on, starts mixing the cake again. You're offering me what you would want if our roles were flipped. What's that? Money. What you should be offering is what I want.

Bing? Respect, motherfucker. Thanks for the beer. Dutch pointedly says nothing. Dr. Thor cycles away. As he goes, he's caught up to by the boy with the new bicycle. They cycle together into the distance. Exterior, Ford Avenue, night. A man rides a white bicycle down the trafficless,

lamp-lit road. Alongside him, a second bicycle in parallel motion. Two quick pistol shots from the woods. Only one bicycle emerges from the darkness, hits the curb, flips over into the gravel, front wheel spinning. Dutch's headlights find the man lying in the road. Grow up poor, you grow up respecting bad luck. But it's more than that. Dutch stops, turns off the engine,

steps out of the cab, 33 in hand. She sweeps her flashlight along the road. You grow a sense for it. You know it's here without any telling. When I saw the body in the road, I knew my brothers had a hand in this. No fucking doubt. None. Dr. Thor? Mr. Thor, is that you? It's like you know your own body when something is just wrong.

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, Rafe, JP, and Mort. Who is in the market for a savior? Mort holding the leash for a police dog whose high-by tabard reads, Police Canine. Idiots. Idiots are in the market for a police dog whose high-bite tabard reads, Police Canine. Idiots.

Idiots are in the market for a savior. Except they don't know that. They're idiots. Dutch sees a smoking revolver in JP's hand. Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. End Act 1.

Good job, everyone. Can we go back to page 1 and read the first half of page 1 again?