More Than One Idiot Brother - Act 1 / Part 1

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 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 Lahne. 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 and the heat of the moment,
and showcases unlikely heroes and challenging situations.
Enjoy What are We Waiting On?
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
and s u V 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 thirty runs towards the crosswalk. The jogger is 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 veer
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 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 prelap A gaveled banging
a table, interior school gymnasium, twelfth Michigan night, A proper
rowdy town hall, plastic chairs, bad coffee heating busted two
hundred fifty plus citizens yelling out shame, sit down, shut
your mouth. As Mayor Gimbal fifty 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 who behind the mayor reads twelfth Michigan
welcomes Thor Industries.
Strike that phrase from the record.
The meeting secretary sixty 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, Jeb Sando fifty.
Then I'll say it again, white trash. A woman in
Sacramento is crushed to death under the wheels of a
Thoor Industry's driverless auto, and they ban testing across the
state at California, and you're asking us to allow it.
Here truth.
Next to Mayor Gimble at the top table, a man
sporting of forty thousand dollars Rolex, doctor Alex Sandberg thirty
out of town or no doubt. Doctor Sandberg is scanning
Jeb Sando'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 where
they wouldn't be here. Right, But to have you speak
for them, take their side over ours. Shame on you,
mayor gimble for shame.
Doctor Sandberg types unreachable in j file.
Also that woman wasn't killed, Jeb, just paraplegia.
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 eighteen wheelers. Permission is for
out of town only. We're here because of how safely
this can be done in twelve.
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 twelve for the first time in a generation.
Couple of heads not 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, He's got a point.
Okay, we have a chainants here to be a part
of four industries journey.
Each take our share of the rewards that will flow
from such fellowship.
Mayor Gimbal nods at doctor Sandberg. Doctor Sandberg nods back.
Till the factory opens in Tijuana, just like you know
it will.
Mayor Gimbal bangs his gavel, but it doesn't quell the
yelling from the opposing sides. Sitting at the back of
the hall, Dutch Nyberg thirty. Dutch's skin is outdoorsy red.
Her hair is a stranger to seer them. 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 steaks nor ods neither
can you say 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 lack
the taste of surrender or not.
Dutch glances around the room, sees the twins, Agnes and
Amy Butterworth seventy, 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. Doctor Kurt Thor thirty. Doctor 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. Eight dy shit or
starve your choice.
Dutch looks from doctor Thor to Jeb Sando, who just
threw his chair at Mayor Gimbal, sending Doctor 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 Gimbal 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 to truck. Logo
on the driver's door says Dick Niberg and Sons twenty
four to seven Recovery. Doctor Thor steps out from the meeting,
observes Dutch as she drives out of the parking lot.
A scientist appears over doctor Thor's shoulder. Doctor Thor looks back,
nods at the scientist. Exterior twelfth 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, PD's Pawnbroker, Butterworth's Bar, all the other businesses
boarded up across the street. The last film advertised on
the marquis 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. Times up,
Dutch notices the homeless man out of town Brown sixty
drinking a whiskey cord on a bench. Next to him
on the seat a small jack russell on a twine
lead Dutch. He's 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, twelfth Michigan night. That twilight
street in every remote town where the sidewalk gives way
to gravel, where the last street light stands. Being flat Michigan,
the roads go only in dead straight lines through deep
wilderness woods, fine hunting country. A man thirty 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 street lights don't quite join up, so
the man passes from lamp light 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 Blondelle 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 Nybird, 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 the thirty three,
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 shot, 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 thirty three.
Doctor Thor, mister 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 twenty eight, Rafe Nyberg thirty five and J. P.
Nyberg forty, 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 eightiot brothers?
Exterior Edison Lake Shoreline, Michigan day snow bound 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, crawls
at the earth.
Like everyone who grew up out of town, we kept
hunting dogs for hunting. One was its beagle cross, Rascal,
brave in the deep brush, honest jaw, good hunting dog.
Now my kid brother. More 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 nineteen oh one. Rascal walks towards the
Nyburg home.
More beg 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 nature. He killed
in the deep woods. We catch that dead stink, then
get to searching. Find a baby raccoon jammed in under
the boot rack, or a jack rabbit. Muldern and the
call shoe. Our neighbor Abe Guttramsen had a runt terrier,
sally Ough, 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 whinds 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 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 respect and bad luck. Best
keep a secret and spin the wheel.
Interior Nyberg Family Home Kitchen. Evening Rascal hops through the
dog flap and walks past Mama Nyberg forty, 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 Dodge. 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, rouls 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 Dash Mama
and Iberg 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 three footer.
From inside the bedroom, we hear a child's loving voice.
In a 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 broomating,
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 and Iberg 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 chen. Mama and
Iberg grabs the doll with a blood soaked hand, but
Dutch doesn't let go.
Mama, no, please.
Mama, and I 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 and Iburg looks at the bloodstained 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 and Iberg 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 back yard. Dutch
bursts out the back door and throws herself headlong into
the snow. More 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'm boring my.
Doutch looks up to Mort's bedroom, then at her blood stained,
smoking doll in the snow here.
Hae you there you are.
Pistol shots from inside the house. Crack, crack, crack. Dutch
jumps to her feet at the sounds of gunfire, stares
at Mort's bedroom window.
Got you, devil, got you good, Rascal barking, crack, Rascal
whinds 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 birds 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 More 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 jugger 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 baby, 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 look the wrong way
on account of the British drive in 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 twelfth Michigan, population three hundred and twenty two plus U.
Exterior Rural Road number two, Michigan, moving super close on
Dutches'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 nineteen eighty eight 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 Industry's 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 doctor Kurt Thor approaches the scene. Shown the
news that black kid 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 frank party. So they're saying, Plea'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 JP? Was it
guns or knives or or what slashcott exterior Nyberg family
home night by the front porch. Dutch and JP Nyberg
forty in a brutal, bloody fight. The weapon of choice
ice hockey sticks. JP is taller and broader than Dutch,
and he easily smashes Dutch to the ground, her stick
flying from her hands, JP lifts his hockey stick over
his head.
Freeze framed eighty brother number two JP. JP didn't need
no snakebite to get stupid. JP was eighty eight born