Funny Movie Quotes

*Four*Zero*Six*

*Four*Zero*Six*

Active member
NS i need a favor i need a bunch of funny quotes from movies like for example...If your not first your last-Ricky Bobby Sr-Talledega Nights.I tried to google funny movie quotes and it was a bunch of corny shit from like the 80's and these quotes have to go on a bulletin board here at work so i need some good shit! Thanks NS!

-Jonny-
 
Yeah, I mean I'm sorry I'm built like a woman and not like a black man. But still, i would have died before giving Julia my chocolate milk
 
Pulp Fiction:

Jules: Mmmm! Goddamn, Jimmie! This is some serious gourmet shit! Usually, me and Vince would be happy with some freeze-dried Taster's Choice, but he springs this serious GOURMET shit on us! What flavor is this?

Jimmie: Knock it off, Julie.

Jules: [pause[/i]] What?

Jimmie: I don't need you to tell me how fucking good my coffee is, okay? I'm the one who buys it. I know how good it is. When Bonnie goes shopping she buys SHIT. Me, I buy the gourmet expensive stuff because when I drink it I want to taste it. But you know what's on my mind right now? It AIN'T the coffee in my kitchen, it's the dead nigger in my garage.

Jules: Oh, Jimmie, don't even worry about that...

Jimmie: No, let me ask you a question. When you came pulling in here, did you see a sign out in front of my house that said Dead Nigger Storage?

Jules: Jimmie, you know I ain't seen no...

Jimmie: Did you see a sign out in front of my house that said Dead Nigger Storage?

Jules: [pause[/i]] No. I didn't.

Jimmie: You know WHY you didn't see that sign?

Jules: Why?

Jimmie: 'Cause it ain't there, 'cause storing dead niggers ain't my fucking business, that's why!

Vincent: And you know what they call a... a... a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?

Jules: They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with cheese?

Vincent: No man, they got the metric system. They wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.

Jules: Then what do they call it?

Vincent: They call it a Royale with cheese.

Jules: A Royale with cheese. What do they call a Big Mac?

Vincent: Well, a Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call it le Big-Mac.

Jules: Le Big-Mac. Ha ha ha ha. What do they call a Whopper?

Vincent: I dunno, I didn't go into Burger King.

The first rule of Fight Club is - you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is - you DO NOT talk about Fight Club. Third rule of Fight Club, someone yells Stop!, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule, only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule, one fight at a time, fellas. Sixth rule, no shirt, no shoes. Seventh rule, fights will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule, if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight."
 
Stoner: "I'm freakin out man!"

Rabbit: "You are freakin out...............MAN"

Super Troopers is full of them.
 
i forget what movie its from but its prety randome

woman:im tired

man:me to but i am wired why dont we go to your house so i can eat your pussy out
 
Dante Hicks: 'Porch monkey' is a racial slur against black people!

Randal Graves: Oh it is not! Coon, spook, spade, moolie, jigaboo, nig-nog, those are racial slurs against black people!

 
A Fucking 12-Guage, what do you think?

Anything from Zoolander

" I like to picture jesus, as an angel,with his angel band, singin' lead vocals...... for lynard skynard. And im rockin' in the front row, TOTALLY hammered drunk"

I like to picture jesus as a bum, and i wanna sock that bum, but then i say to myself, wait, wait, theres something speacial about this guy.... and it turns out hes jesus....

TALLEDAGA NIGHTS BITCHEZ
 
.....8 year olds, dude

mind if I do a J?

Y'know, minimum-security prison is no picnic. I have a client in there right now. He says the trick is: kick someone's ass the first day, or become someone's bitch. Then everything will be all right
 
THE BIG LEBOWSKI

We are floating up a steep scrubby slope. We hear male voices

gently singing "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" and a deep, affable,

Western-accented voice--Sam Elliot's, perhaps:

VOICE-OVER

A way out west there was a fella,

fella I want to tell you about, fella

by the name of Jeff Lebowski. At

least, that was the handle his lovin'

parents gave him, but he never had

much use for it himself. This

Lebowski, he called himself the Dude.

Now, Dude, that's a name no one would

self-apply where I come from. But

then, there was a lot about the Dude

that didn't make a whole lot of sense

to me. And a lot about where he

lived, like- wise. But then again,

maybe that's why I found the place

s'durned innarestin'.

We top the rise and the smoggy vastness of Los Angeles at

twilight stretches out before us.

VOICE-OVER

They call Los Angeles the City of

Angels. I didn't find it to be that

exactly, but I'll allow as there are

some nice folks there. 'Course, I

can't say I seen London, and I never

been to France, and I ain't never

seen no queen in her damn undies as

the fella says. But I'll tell you

what, after seeing Los Angeles and

thisahere story I'm about to unfold--

wal, I guess I seen somethin' ever'

bit as stupefyin' as ya'd see in any

a those other places, and in English

too, so I can die with a smile on my

face without feelin' like the good

Lord gypped me.

INTERIOR RALPH'S

It is late, the supermarket all but deserted. We are tracking

in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the

dairy case. He is the Dude. His rumpled look and relaxed

manner suggest a man in whom casualness runs deep.

He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their

expiration dates.

VOICE-OVER

Now this story I'm about to unfold

took place back in the early nineties--

just about the time of our conflict

with Sad'm and the Eye-rackies. I

only mention it 'cause some- times

there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro,

'cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes

there's a man.

The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of

milk. He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs.

VOICE-OVER

And I'm talkin' about the Dude here--

sometimes there's a man who, wal,

he's the man for his time'n place,

he fits right in there--and that's

the Dude, in Los Angeles.

CHECKOUT GIRL

She waits, arms folded. A small black-and white TV next to

her register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with

helicopter rotors spinning behind him.

GEORGE BUSH

This aggression will not stand. . .

This will not stand!

The Dude, peeking over his shades, scribbles something at

the little customer's lectern. Milk beads his mustache.

VOICE-OVER

...and even if he's a lazy man, and

the Dude was certainly that--quite

possibly the laziest in Los Angeles

County.

The Dude has his Ralph's Shopper's Club card to one side and

is making out a check to Ralph's for sixty-nine cents.

VOICE-OVER

...which would place him high in the

runnin' for laziest worldwide--but

sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes

there's a man.

EXTERIOR RALPH'S

Long shot of the glowing Ralph's. There are only two or

three cars parked in the huge lot.

VOICE-OVER

Wal, I lost m'train of thought here.

But--aw hell, I done innerduced him

enough.

The Dude is a small figure walking across the vast lot.

Next to him walks a Mexican carry-out boy in a red apron and

cap carrying a small brown bag holding the quart of milk.

The two men's footsteps echo in the still of the night.

After a beat of walking the Dude offhandedly points.

DUDE

It's the LeBaron.

DUDE'S HOUSE

The Dude is going up the walkway of a small Venice bungalow

court. He holds the paper sack in one hand and a small

leatherette satchel in the other. He awkwardly hugs the

grocery bag against his chest as he turns a key in his door.

INSIDE

The Dude enters and flicks on a light.

His head is grabbed from behind and tucked into an armpit.

We track with him as he is rushed through the living room,

his arm holding the satchel flailing away from his body.

Going into the bedroom the outflung satchel catches a piece

of doorframe and wallboard and rips through it, leaving a

hole.

The Dude is propelled across the bedroom and on into a small

bathroom, the satchel once again taking away a piece of

doorframe. His head is plunged into the toilet. The paper

bag hugged to his chest explodes milk as it hits the toilet

rim and the satchel pulverizes tile as it crashes to the

floor.

The Dude blows bubbles.

VOICE

We want that money, Lebowski. Bunny

said you were good for it.

Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet. The Dude blubbers and

gasps for air.

VOICE

Where's the money, Lebowski!

His head is plunged back into the toilet.

VOICE

Where's the money, Lebowski!

The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping.

VOICE

WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY, SHITHEAD!

DUDE

It's uh, it's down there somewhere.

Lemme take another look.

His head is plunged back in.

VOICE

Don't fuck with us. If your wife

owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that

means you owe money to Jackie

Treehorn.

The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and

flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against

the toilet.

The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand.

Looming over him is a strapping blond man.

Beyond in the living room a young Chinese man unzips his fly

and walks over to a rug.

CHINESE MAN

Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski.

He starts peeing on the rug.

The Dude's hand comes out of the toilet bowl with his

sunglasses.

DUDE

Oh, man. Don't do--

BLOND MAN

You see what happens? You see what

happens, Lebowski?

The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.

DUDE

Look, nobody calls me Lebowski. You

got the wrong guy. I'm the Dude,

man.

BLOND MAN

Your name is Lebowski. Your wife is

Bunny.

DUDE

Bunny? Look, moron.

He holds up his hands.

DUDE

You see a wedding ring? Does this

place look like I'm fucking married?

All my plants are dead!

The blond man stoops to unzip the satchel. He pulls out a

bowling ball and examines it in the manner of a superstitious

native.

BLOND MAN

The fuck is this?

The Dude pats at his pockets, takes out a joint and lights

it.

DUDE

Obviously you're not a golfer.

The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.

BLOND MAN

Woo?

The Chinese man is zipping his fly.

WOO

Yeah?

BLOND MAN

Wasn't this guy supposed to be a

millionaire?

WOO

Uh?

They both look around.

WOO

Fuck.

BLOND MAN

What do you think?

WOO

He looks like a fuckin' loser.

The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose with one finger

and peeks over them.

DUDE

Hey. At least I'm housebroken.

The two men look at each other. They turn to leave.

WOO

Fuckin' waste of time.

The blond man turns testily at the door.

BLOND MAN

Thanks a lot, asshole.

ON THE DOOR SLAM WE CUT TO:

BOWLING PINS

Scattered by a strike.

Music and head credits play over various bowling shots--pins

flying, bowlers hoisting balls, balls gliding down lanes,

sliding feet, graceful releases, ball return spinning up a

ball, fingers sliding into fingerholes, etc.

The music turns into boomy source music, coming from a distant

jukebox, as the credits end over a clattering strike.

A lanky blonde man with stringy hair tied back in a ponytail

turns from the strike to walk back to the bench.

MAN

Hot damn, I'm throwin' rocks tonight.

Mark it, Dude.

We are tracking in on the circular bench towards a big man

nursing a large plastic cup of Bud. He has dark worried

eyes and a goatee. Hairy legs emerge from his khaki shorts.

He also wears a khaki army surplus shirt with the sleeves

cut off over an old bowling shirt. This is Walter. He

squints through the smoke from his own cigarette as he

addresses the Dude at the scoring table.

The Dude, also holding a large plastic cup of Bud, wears

some of its foam on his mustache.

WALTER

This was a valued rug.

He elaborately clears his throat.

WALTER

This was, uh--

DUDE

Yeah man, it really tied the room

together--

WALTER

This was a valued, uh.

Donny, the strike-scoring bowler, enters and sits next Walter.

DONNY

What tied the room together, Dude?

WALTER

Were you listening to the story,

Donny?

DONNY

What--

WALTER

Were you listening to the Dude's

story?

DONNY

I was bowling--

WALTER

So you have no frame of reference,

Donny. You're like a child who

wanders in in the middle of a movie

and wants to know--

DUDE

What's your point, Walter?

WALTER

There's no fucking reason--here's my

point, Dude--there's no fucking reason--

DONNY

Yeah Walter, what's your point?

WALTER

Huh?

DUDE

What's the point of--we all know who

was at fault, so what the fuck are

you talking about?

WALTER

Huh? No! What the fuck are you

talking--I'm not--we're talking about

unchecked aggression here--

DONNY

What the fuck is he talking about?

DUDE

My rug.

WALTER

Forget it, Donny. You're out of

your element.

DUDE

This Chinaman who peed on my rug, I

can't go give him a bill so what the

fuck are you talking about?

WALTER

What the fuck are you talking about?!

This Chinaman is not the issue! I'm

talking about drawing a line in the

sand, Dude. Across this line you do

not, uh--and also, Dude, Chinaman is

not the preferred, uh. . . Asian-

American. Please.

DUDE

Walter, this is not a guy who built

the rail- roads, here, this is a guy

who peed on my--

WALTER

What the fuck are you--

DUDE

Walter, he peed on my rug--

DONNY

He peed on the Dude's rug--

WALTER

YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT! This

Chinaman is not the issue, Dude.

DUDE

So who--

WALTER

Jeff Lebowski. Come on. This other

Jeffrey Lebowski. The millionaire.

He's gonna be easier to find anyway

than these two, uh. these two . . .

And he has the wealth, uh, the

resources obviously, and there is no

reason, no FUCKING reason, why his

wife should go out and owe money and

they pee on your rug. Am I wrong?

DUDE

No, but--

WALTER

Am I wrong!

DUDE

Yeah, but--

WALTER

Okay. That, uh.

He elaborately clears his throat.

That rap really tied the room together, did it not?

DUDE

Fuckin' A.

DONNY

And this guy peed on it.

WALTER

Donny! Please!

DUDE

Yeah, I could find this Lebowski guy--

DONNY

His name is Lebowski? That's your

name, Dude!

DUDE

Yeah, this is the guy, this guy should

compensate me for the fucking rug.

I mean his wife goes out and owes

money and they pee on my rug.

WALTER

Thaaat's right Dude; they pee on

your fucking Rug.

CLOSE ON A PLAQUE

We pull back from the name JEFFREY LEBOWSKI engraved in silver

to reveal that the plaque, from Variety Clubs International,

honors Lebowski as ACHIEVER OF THE YEAR.

Reflected in the plaque we see the Dude entering the room

with a YOUNG MAN. We hear the two men talk:

YOUNG MAN

And this is the study. You can see

the various commendations, honorary

degrees, et cetera.

DUDE

Yes, uh, very impressive.

YOUNG MAN

Please, feel free to inspect them.

DUDE

I'm not really, uh.

YOUNG MAN

Please! Please!

DUDE

Uh-huh.

We are panning the walls, looking at various citations and

certificates unrelated to the ones being discussed offscreen:

YOUNG MAN

That's the key to the city of

Pasadena, which Mr. Lebowski was

given two years ago in recognition

of his various civic, uh.

DUDE

Uh-huh.

YOUNG MAN

That's a Los Angeles Chamber of

Commerce Business Achiever award,

which is given--not necessarily given

every year! Given only when there's

a worthy, somebody especially--

DUDE

Hey, is this him with Nancy?

YOUNG MAN

That is indeed Mr. Lebowski with the

first lady, yes, taken when--

DUDE

Lebowski on the right?

YOUNG MAN

Of course, Mr. Lebowski on the right,

Mrs. Reagan on the left, taken when--

DUDE

He's handicapped, huh?

YOUNG MAN

Mr. Lebowski is disabled, yes. And

this picture was taken when Mrs.

Reagan was first lady of the nation,

yes, yes? Not of California.

DUDE

Far out.

YOUNG MAN

And in fact he met privately with

the President, though unfortunately

there wasn't time for a photo

opportunity.

DUDE

Nancy's pretty good.

YOUNG MAN

Wonderful woman. We were very--

DUDE

Are these.

YOUNG MAN

These are Mr. Lebowski's children,

so to speak--

DUDE

Different mothers, huh?

YOUNG MAN

No, they--

DUDE

I guess he's pretty, uh, racially

pretty cool--

YOUNG MAN

They're not his, heh-heh, they're

not literally his children; they're

the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,

inner-city children of promise but

without the--

DUDE

I see.

YOUNG MAN

--without the means for higher

education, so Mr. Lebowski has

committed to sending all of them

to college.

DUDE

Jeez. Think he's got room for one

more?

YOUNG MAN

One--oh! Heh-heh. You never went

to college?

DUDE

Well, yeah I did, but I spent most

of my time occupying various, um,

administration buildings--

YOUNG MAN

Heh-heh--

DUDE

--smoking thai-stick, breaking into

the ROTC--

YOUNG MAN

Yes, heh--

DUDE

--and bowling. I'll tell you the

truth, Brandt, I don't remember most

of it.--Jeez! Fuck me!

Our continuing track and pan have brought us onto a framed

Life Magazine cover which is headlined ARE YOU A LEBOWSKI

ACHIEVER? Oddly, the Dude's sunglassed face is on it; we

realize that, under the magazine's logo and headline, the

display is mirrored.

We hear the door open and the whine of a motor. The Dude,

wearing shorts and a bowling shirt, turns to look.

So does Brandt, the young man we've been listening to. He

wears a suit and has his hands clasped in front of his groin.

Entering the room is a fat sixtyish man in a motorized

wheelchair--Jeff Lebowski.

LEBOWSKI

Okay sir, you're a Lebowski, I'm a

Lebowski, that's terrific, I'm very

busy so what can I do for you?

He wheels himself behind a desk. The Dude sits facing him

as Brandt withdraws.

DUDE

Well sir, it's this rug I have, really

tied the room together-

LEBOWSKI

You told Brandt on the phone, he

told me. So where do I fit in?

DUDE

Well they were looking for you, these

two guys, they were trying to--

LEBOWSKI

I'll say it again, all right? You

told Brandt. He told me. I know

what happened. Yes? Yes?

DUDE

So you know they were trying to piss

on your rug--

LEBOWSKI

Did I urinate on your rug?

DUDE

You mean, did you personally come

and pee on my--

LEBOWSKI

Hello! Do you speak English? Parla

usted Inglese? I'll say it again.

Did I urinate on your rug?

DUDE

Well no, like I said, Woo peed on

the rug--

LEBOWSKI

Hello! Hello! So every time--I

just want to understand this, sir--

every time a rug is micturated upon

in this fair city, I have to

compensate the--

DUDE

Come on, man, I'm not trying to scam

anybody here, I'm just--

LEBOWSKI

You're just looking for a handout

like every other--are you employed,

Mr. Lebowski?

DUDE

Look, let me explain something.

I'm not Mr. Lebowski; you're Mr.

Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's

what you call me. That, or Duder.

His Dudeness. Or El Duderino, if,

you know, you're not into the whole

brevity thing--

LEBOWSKI

Are you employed, sir?

DUDE

Employed?

LEBOWSKI

You don't go out and make a living

dressed like that in the middle of a

weekday.

DUDE

Is this a--what day is this?

LEBOWSKI

But I do work, so if you don't mind--

DUDE

No, look. I do mind. The Dude minds.

This will not stand, ya know, this

will not stand, man. I mean, if

your wife owes--

LEBOWSKI

My wife is not the issue here. I

hope that my wife will someday learn

to live on her allowance, which is

ample, but if she doesn't, sir, that

will be her problem, not mine, just

as your rug is your problem, just as

every bum's lot in life is his own

responsibility regardless of whom he

chooses to blame. I didn't blame

anyone for the loss of my legs, some

chinaman in Korea took them from me

but I went out and achieved anyway.

I can't solve your problems, sir,

only you can.

The Dude rises.

DUDE

Ah fuck it.

LEBOWSKI

Sure! Fuck it! That's your answer!

Tattoo it on your forehead! Your

answer to everything!

The Dude is heading for the door.

LEBOWSKI

Your "revolution" is over, Mr.

Lebowski! Condolences! The bums

lost!

As the Dude opens the door.

LEBOWSKI

...My advice is, do what your parents

did! Get a job, sir! The bums will

always lose-- do you hear me,

Lebowski? THE BUMS WILL ALWAYS--

The Dude shuts the door on the old man's bellowing to find

himself--

HALLWAY

--in a high coffered hallway. Brandt

is approaching.

BRANDT

How was your meeting, Mr. Lebowski?

DUDE

Okay. The old man told me to take

any rug in the house.

WALKWAY

A houseman with a rolled-up carpet on one shoulder goes down

a stone walk that winds through the back lawn, past a swimming

pool to a garage. Brandt and the Dude follow.

BRANDT

Manolo will load it into your car

for you, uh, Dude.

DUDE

It's the LeBaron.

DUDE'S POINT OF VIEW

Tracking toward the pool. A young woman sits facing it, her

back to us, leaning forward to paint her toenails.

Beyond her a black form floats in an inflatable chair in the

pool.

BRANDT

Well, enjoy, and perhaps we'll see

you again some time, Dude.

DUDE

Yeah sure, if I'm ever in the

neighborhood, need to use the john.

CLOSER TRACK

Arcing around the woman's foot as she finishes painting the

nails emerald green.

THE DUDE

Looking.

WIDER

The young woman looks up at him. She is in her early

twenties.

She leans back and extends her leg toward the Dude.

YOUNG WOMAN

Blow on them.

The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose and peeks over

them.

DUDE

Huh?

She waggles her foot and giggles.

YOUNG WOMAN

G'ahead. Blow.

The Dude tentatively grabs hold of her extended foot.

DUDE

You want me to blow on your toes?

YOUNG WOMAN

Uh-huh. . . I can't blow that far.

The Dude looks over at the pool.

DUDE

You sure he won't mind?

The man bobbing in the inflatable chair is passed out. He

is thin, in his thirties, with long stringy blond hair. He

wears black leather pants and a black leather jacket, open,

shirtless, exposing fine blond chest hair and pale skin.

One arm trails off into the water; next to it, an empty

whiskey bottle bobs.

YOUNG WOMAN

Dieter doesn't care about anything.

He's a nihilist.

DUDE

Practicing?

The young woman smiles.

YOUNG WOMAN

You're not blowing.

Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.

BRANDT

Our guest has to be getting along,

Mrs. Lebowski.

The Dude grudgingly allows himself to be led away, still

looking at the young woman.

DUDE

You're Bunny?

BUNNY

I'll suck your cock for a thousand

dollars.

Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:

BRANDT

Ha-ha-ha-ha! Wonderful woman. Very

free-spirited. We're all very fond

of her.

BUNNY

Brandt can't watch though. Or he

has to pay a hundred.

BRANDT

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That's marvelous.

He continues to lead away the Dude, who looks back over his

SHOULDER:

DUDE

I'm just gonna find a cash machine.

BOWLING PINS

Scattered by a strike.

THE BOWLERS

Donny calls out from the bench:

DONNY

Grasshopper Dude--They're dead in

the water!!

As the Dude walks back to the scoring table he turns to

another team in black bowling shirts--the Cavaliers--that

shares the lane.

DUDE

Your maples, Carl.

Walter, just arriving, is carrying a leatherette satchel in

one hand and a large plastic carrier in the other.

WALTER

Way to go, Dude. If you will it, it

is no dream.

DUDE

You're fucking twenty minutes late.

What the fuck is that?

WALTER

Theodore Herzel.

DUDE

Huh?

WALTER

State of Israel. If you will it,

Dude, it is no--

DUDE

What the fuck're you talking about?

The carrier. What's in the fucking

carrier?

WALTER

Huh? Oh--Cynthia's Pomeranian.

Can't leave him home alone or he

eats the furniture.

DUDE

What the fuck are you--

WALTER

I'm saying, Cynthia's Pomeranian.

I'm looking after it while Cynthia

and Marty Ackerman are in Hawaii.

DUDE

You brought a fucking Pomeranian

bowling?

WALTER

What do you mean "brought it bowling"?

I didn't rent it shoes. I'm not

buying it a fucking beer. He's not

gonna take your fucking turn, Dude.

He lets the small yapping dog out of the carrier. It scoots

around the bowling table, sniffing at bowlers and wagging

its tail.

DUDE

Hey, man, if my fucking ex-wife asked

me to take care of her fucking dog

while she and her boyfriend went to

Honolulu, I'd tell her to go fuck

herself. Why can't she board it?

WALTER

First of all, Dude, you don't have

an ex, secondly, it's a fucking show

dog with fucking papers. You can't

board it. It gets upset, its hair

falls out.

DUDE

Hey man--

WALTER

Fucking dog has papers, Dude.--Over

the line!

Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.

WALTER

Smokey Huh?

WALTER

Over the line, Smokey! I'm sorry.

That's a foul.

SMOKEY

Bullshit. Eight, Dude.

WALTER

Excuse me! Mark it zero. Next frame.

SMOKEY

Bullshit. Walter!

WALTER

This is not Nam. This is bowling.

There are rules.

DUDE

Come on Walter, it's just--it's

Smokey. So his toe slipped over a

little, it's just a game.

WALTER

This is a league game. This

determines who enters the next round-

robin, am I wrong?

SMOKEY

Yeah, but--

WALTER

Am I wrong!?

SMOKEY

Yeah, but I wasn't over. Gimme the

marker, Dude, I'm marking it an

eight.

Walter takes out a gun.

WALTER

Smokey my friend, you're entering a

world of pain.

DUDE

Hey Walter--

WALTER

Mark that frame an eight, you're

entering a world of pain.

SMOKEY

I'm not--

WALTER

A world of pain.

A manager in a bowling-shirt style uniform is running for a

phone.

SMOKEY

Look Dude, I don't hold with this.

This guy is your partner, you should--

Walter primes the gun and points it at his head.

WALTER

HAS THE WHOLE WORLD GONE CRAZY? AM

I THE ONLY ONE HERE WHO GIVES A SHIT

ABOUT THE RULES? MARK IT ZERO!

The Pomeranian is excitedly yapping at Walter's elbow, making

high body-twisting tail-wagging leaps.

DUDE

Walter, they're calling the cops,

put the piece away.

WALTER

MARK IT ZERO!

SMOKEY

Walter--

WALTER

YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND HERE?

MARK IT ZERO!!

SMOKEY

All right! There it is! It's fucking

zero!

He points frantically at the score projected above the lane.

SMOKEY

You happy, you crazy fuck?

WALTER

This is a league game, Smokey!

PARKING LOT

Walter and the Dude walk to the Dude's car. The Pomeranian

trots happily behind Walter who totes the empty carrier.

DUDE

Walter, you can't do that. These

guys're like me, they're pacificists.

Smokey was a conscientious objector.

WALTER

You know Dude, I myself dabbled with

pacifism at one point. Not in Nam,

of course--

DUDE

And you know Smokey has emotional

problems!

WALTER

You mean--beyond pacifism?

DUDE

He's fragile, man! He's very fragile!

As the two men get into the car:

WALTER

Huh. I did not know that. Well,

it's water under the bridge. And we

do enter the next round-robin, am I

wrong?

DUDE

No, you're not wrong--

WALTER

Am I wrong!

DUDE

You're not wrong, Walter, you're

just an asshole.

They watch a squad car take a squealing turn into the lot.

WALTER

Okay then. We play Quintana and

O'Brien next week. They'll be

pushovers.

DUDE

Just, just take it easy, Walter.

WALTER

That's your answer to everything,

Dude. And let me point out--pacifism

is not--look at our current situation

with that camelfucker in Iraq--

pacifism is not something to hide

behind.

DUDE

Well, just take 't easy, man.

WALTER

I'm perfectly calm, Dude.

DUDE

Yeah? Wavin' a gun around?!

WALTER

(smugly)

Calmer than you are.

-his irritates the Dude further.

DUDE

Just take it easy, man!

Walter is still smug.

WALTER

Calmer than you are.

DUDE'S HOUSE

A large, brilliant Persian rug lies beneath the Dude's beat-

up old furniture.

At the table next to the answering machine the Dude is mixing

kalhua, rum and milk.

VOICE

Dude, this is Smokey. Look, I don't

wanna be a hard-on about this, and I

know it wasn't your fault, but I

just thought it was fair to tell you

that Gene and I will be submitting

this to the League and asking them

to set aside the round. Or maybe

forfeit it to us--

DUDE

Shit!

VOICE

--so, like I say, just thought, you

know, fair warning. Tell Walter.

A beep.

ANOTHER VOICE

Mr. Lebowski, this is Brandt at, uh,

well--at Mr. Lebowski's office.

Please call us as soon as is

convenient.

Beep.

ANOTHER VOICE

Mr. Lebowski, this is Fred Dynarski

with the Southern Cal Bowling League.

I just got a, an informal report,

uh, that a uh, a member of your team,

uh, Walter Sobchak, drew a loaded

weapon during league play--

We hear the doorbell.

THE DOOR

It swings open to reveal a short, hairy, muscular but balding

middle-aged man in a black T-shirt and black cut-off jeans.

DUDE

Hiya Allan.

ALLAN

Dude, I finally got the venue I

wanted. I'm Performing my dance

quintet--you know, my cycle--at Crane

Jackson's Fountain Street Theatre on

Tuesday night, and I'd love it if

you came and gave me notes.

The Dude takes a swig of his kalhua.

DUDE

Sure Allan, I'll be there.

ALLAN

Dude, uh, tomorrow is already the

tenth.

DUDE

Yeah, yeah I know. Okay.

ALLAN

Just, uh, just slip the rent under

my door.

DUDE

Yeah, okay.

BACK IN THE LIVING ROOM

The voice continues on the machine.

VOICE

--serious infraction, and examine

your standing. Thank you. Beep.

VOICE

Mr. Lebowski, Brandt again. Please

do call us when you get in and I'll

send the limo. Let me assure you--I

hope you're not avoiding this call

because of the rug, which, I assure

you, is not a problem. We need your

help and, uh--well we would very

much like to see you. Thank you.

It's Brandt.

TRACKING

We are pushing Brandt down the high-ceilinged hallway.

Distantly, we hear a dolorous soprano. Brandt talks back

over

HIS SHOULDER:

BRANDT

We've had some terrible news. Mr.

Lebowski is in seclusion in the West

Wing.

DUDE

Huh.

Brandt throws open a pair of heavy double doors. The music

washes over us as we enter a great study where Jeffrey

Lebowski, a blanket thrown over his knees, stares hauntedly

into a fire, listening to Lohengrin.

BRANDT ANNOUNCES, AMBIGUOUSLY:

BRANDT

Mr. Lebowski.

Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.

LEBOWSKI

It's funny. I can look back on a

life of achievement, on challenges

met, competitors bested, obstacles

overcome. I've accomplished more

than most men, and without the use

of my legs. What. . . What makes a

man, Mr. Lebowski?

DUDE

Dude.

LEBOWSKI

Huh?

DUDE

I don't know, sir.

LEBOWSKI

Is it. . . is it, being prepared to

do the right thing? Whatever the

price? Isn't that what makes a man?

DUDE

Sure. That and a pair of testicles.

Lebowski turns away from the Dude with a haunted stare, lost

in thought.

LEBOWSKI

You're joking. But perhaps you're

right.

The Dude thumps at his chest pocket.

DUDE

Mind if I smoke a jay?

LEBOWSKI

Bunny.

He turns back around and the firelight shows teartracks on

his cheeks.

DUDE

'Scuse me?

LEBOWSKI

Bunny Lebowski. . . She is the light

of my life. Are you surprised at my

tears, sir?

DUDE

Fuckin' A.

LEBOWSKI

Strong men also cry. . . Strong men

also cry.

He clears his throat.

LEBOWSKI

I received this fax this morning.

Brandt hastily pulls a flimsy sheet from his clipboard and

hands it to the Dude.

LEBOWSKI

As you can see, it is a ransom note.

Sent by cowards. Men who are unable

to achieve on a level field of play.

Men who will not sign their names.

Weaklings. Bums.

THE DUDE EXAMINES THE FAX:

WE HAVE BUNNY. GATHER ONE MILLION DOLLARS IN UNMARKED NON-

CONSECUTIVE TWENTIES. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. NO FUNNY STUFF.

DUDE

Bummer.

Lebowski looks soulfully at the Dude.

LEBOWSKI

Brandt will fill you in on the

details.

He wheels his chair around to once again gaze into the fire.

Brandt tugs at the Dude's shirt and points him back to the

hall.

HALLWAY

The soprano's singing is once again faint. Brandt's voice

is hushed:

BRANDT

Mr. Lebowski is prepared to make a

generous offer to you to act as

courier once we get instructions for

the money.

DUDE

Why me, man?

BRANDT

He suspects that the culprits might

be the very people who, uh, soiled

your rug, and you're in a unique

position to confirm or, uh, disconfirm

that suspicion.

DUDE

So he thinks it's the carpet-pissers,

huh?

BRANDT

Well Dude, we just don't know.

BOWLING PINS

 
BOWLING PINS

CRASH--scattered by a strike, in slow motion.

WIDER

Still in slow motion. We are looking across the length of

the bowling alley at a tall, thin, Hispanic bowler displaying

perfect form. He wears an all-in-one dacron-polyester stretch

bowling outfit with a racing stripe down each side.

FAST TRACK IN

On the Dude, sitting next to Walter in the molded plastic

chairs. The Dude is staring off towards the bowler.

DUDE

Fucking Quintana--that creep can

roll, man--

BACK TO THE BOWLER

Displaying great slow-motion form as the Dude and Walter's

conversation continues over.

WALTER

Yeah, but he's a fucking pervert,

Dude.

DUDE

Huh?

WALTER

The man is a sex offender. With a

record. Spent six months in Chino

for exposing himself to an eight-

year-old.

FLASHBACK

We see Quintana, in pressed jeans and a stretchy sweater,

walking up a stoop in a residential neighborhood and zinging

the bell.

The VOICE-OVER conversation continues.

DUDE

Huh.

WALTER

When he moved down to Venice he had

to go door-to-door to tell everyone

he's a pederast.

The door swings open and a beer-swilling middle-aged man

looks dully out at Quintana, who looks hesitantly up.

DONNY

What's a pederast, Walter?

WALTER

Shut the fuck up, Donny.

PINS

scattered by a strike.

QUINTANA

wheeling and thrusting a black gloved fist into the air.

Stitched above the breast pocket of his all-in-one is his

first name, "Jesus".

BACK TO WALTER AND THE DUDE

They have been joined by Donny.

WALTER

Anyway. How much they offer you?

DUDE

Twenty grand. And of course I still

keep the rug.

WALTER

Just for making the hand-off?

DUDE

Yeah.

He slips a little black box out of his shirt pocket.

DUDE

...They gave Dude a beeper, so

whenever these guys call--

WALTER

What if it's during a game?

DUDE

I told him if it was during league

play--

Donny has been watching Quintana.

DONNY

If what's during league play?

WALTER

Life does not stop and start at your

convenience, you miserable piece of

shit.

DONNY

What's wrong with Walter, Dude?

DUDE

I figure it's easy money, it's all

pretty harmless. I mean she probably

kidnapped herself.

WALTER

Huh?

DONNY

What do you mean, Dude?

DUDE

Rug-peers did not do this. I mean

look at it. Young trophy wife.

Marries a guy for money but figures

he isn't giving her enough. She

owes money all over town--

WALTER

That...fucking...bitch!

DUDE

It's all a goddamn fake. Like Lenin

said, look for the person who will

benefit. And you will, uh, you know,

you'll, uh, you know what I'm trying

to say--

DONNY

I am the Walrus.

WALTER

That fucking bitch!

DUDE

Yeah.

DONNY

I am the Walrus.

WALTER

Shut the fuck up, Donny! V.I. Lenin!

Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!

DONNY

What the fuck is he talking about?

WALTER

That's fucking exactly what happened,

Dude! That makes me fucking SICK!

DUDE

Yeah, well, what do you care, Walter?

DONNY

Yeah Dude, why is Walter so pissed

off?

WALTER

Those rich fucks! This whole fucking

thing-- I did not watch my buddies

die face down in the muck so that

this fucking strumpet--

DUDE

I don't see any connection to Vietnam,

Walter.

WALTER

Well, there isn't a literal

connection, Dude.

DUDE

Walter, face it, there isn't any

connection. It's your roll.

WALTER

Have it your way. The point is--

DUDE

It's your roll--

WALTER

The fucking point is--

DUDE

It's your roll.

VOICE

Are you ready to be fucked, man?

They both look up.

Quintana, on his way out, looks down at them from the lip of

the lanes. Over his polyester all-in-one he now wears a

windbreaker with a racing stripe and "Jesus" stitched on the

breast. He is holding a fancy black-and-red leather ball

satchel (perhaps a Sylvia Wein). Behind him stands his

partner, O'Brien, a short fat Irishman with tufted red hair.

QUINTANA

I see you rolled your way into the

semis. Deos mio, man. Seamus and

me, we're gonna fuck you up.

DUDE

Yeah well, that's just, ya know,

like, your opinion, man.

Quintana looks at Walter.

QUINTANA

Let me tell you something, bendeco.

You pull any your crazy shit with

us, you flash a piece out on the

lanes, I'll take it away from you

and stick it up your ass and pull

the fucking trigger til it goes

"click".

DUDE

Jesus.

QUINTANA

You said it, man. Nobody fucks with

the Jesus.

Jesus walks away. Walter nods sadly.

WALTER

Eight-year-olds, Dude.

DUDE'S BUNGALOW

We are looking down at the Dude who is prone on the rug.

His eyes are closed. He wears a Walkman headset. Leaking

tinnily through the headphones we can just hear an

intermittent clatter.

In his outflung hand lies a cassette case labeled VENICE

BEACH LEAGUE PLAYOFFS 1987.

The Dude absently licks his lips as we faintly hear a hall

rumbling down the lane. On its impact with the pins, the

Dude opens his eyes.

He screams.

A blonde woman looms over him. Next to her a young man

in paint-spattered denims stoops and swings something towards

the carrier.

The sap catches the Dude on the chin and sends his head

thunking back onto the rug.

A million stars explode against a field of black. We hear

the "La-la-la-la" of The Man in Me.

The black field dissolves into the pattern of the rug.

The rug rolls away to reveal an aerial view of the city of

Los Angeles at twilight, moving below us at great speed.

The Dude is flying over the city, his arms thrown out in

front of him, the wind whipping his hair and billowing his

bowling shirt. He looks up.

Ahead the mysterious blonde woman wings away, riding on the

Dude's rug like a sheik on a magic carpet. She is outpacing

us, growing smaller.

The Dude does a couple of lazy crawl strokes and then notices

that a bowling ball has materialized in his forward hand.

His bemusement turns to concern over the aerodynamic

implications just as the ball seems to suddenly assume its

weight, abruptly snapping his arm down, and him after it. He

is falling. From a high angle we see the Dude hurtling down

toward the city, dragged by the ball.

A reverse looking up shows the Dude hurtling toward us

out of the inky sky, his eyes wide with horror. Led by

the bowling ball, he zooms past the camera leaving us in

black.

We hear a distant rumble, like thunder. Dull reflections

materialize in the darkness. They are glints off the shiny

surface of an oncoming bowling ball.

We pull back to reveal that the blackness was the inside of

a ball return, and the gleaming bowling ball is being

regurgitated up at us, overtaking us.

The Dude looks up, up, up at the looming ball, its mass

rolling a huge shadow across his face.

The gleaming ball shows three dead black holes rolling toward

us --finger holes.

The largest--thumb--hole rolls directly over us, engulfing

us once again in black..

The black rolls away and we are spinning--spinning down a

bowling lane--our point of view that of someone trapped in

the thumbhole of the rolling ball.

We see the receding bowler spinning away. It is the blonde

woman, performing her follow-through.

Floor spins up at us and then away; ceiling spins up and

away; the length of the alley with pins at the end; floor;

ceiling; approaching pins; again and again.

We hit the pins and clatter into blackness. We hear pins

spin, hit each other and drop.

We hear an irritating, insistent beeping.

FADE IN

We are close on the Dude, upside down. As the picture fades

in the bowling noises continue, but filtered and faint.

They come from the Dude's Walkman, the headset of which is

now askew, with one arm off his ear.

As the Dude opens his eyes we spiral slowly upward to put

him right side around. His head is now resting against

hardwood floor, not rug.

DUDE

Oh man.

He raises himself onto his elbows and massages the

red lump on his jaw. The beeper on his belt is

blinking red in sync with the continuing irritating beeps.

WIDE ON THE ROOM

An end table is upset, but otherwise the furniture is

in place. The rug is gone.

The Dude looks around. The bowling sounds continue.

The beeps continue.

The phone starts to jangle.

TRACK

We push Brandt down the familiar marble hallway.

Again there is a distant aria. Brandt throws out a

wrist to look at his watch.

BRANDT

They called about eighty minutes

ago. They want you to take the money

and drive north on the 4 5. They'll

call you on the portable phone with

instructions in about forty minutes.

One person only or I'd go with you.

They were very clear on that: one

person only. What happened to your

jaw?

DUDE

Oh, nothin', you know.

They have reached the little desk outside of the big

Lebowski's office; Brandt opens its bottom drawer with a key

and takes out an attache case. He hands this to the Dude

along with a cellular phone in a battery-pack carrying case.

BRANDT

Here's the money, and the phone.

Please, Dude, follow whatever

instructions they give.

DUDE

Uh-huh.

BRANDT

Her life is in your hands.

DUDE

Oh, man, don't say that..

BRANDT

Mr. Lebowski asked me to repeat that:

Her life is in your hands.

DUDE

Shit.

BRANDT

Her life is in your hands, Dude.

And report back to us as soon as

it's done.

DUDE'S CAR

We pan off the Dude, driving, to his point of view through

the front windshield. The headlights play over Walter

standing waiting in front of the storefront of SOBCHAK

SECURITY. Though he is wearing khaki shorts and shirt, the

fact that he holds a battered brown briefcase makes him look

oddly like a commuter. He also holds an irregular shape

bundled in brown wrapping paper.

The car stops in front of him and he opens the Dude's door

and hands in the briefcase.

WALTER

Take the ringer. I'll drive.

The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.

DUDE

The what?

WALTER

The ringer! The ringer, Dude! Have

they called yet?

The Dude opens the briefcase and paws bemusedly through it

as the car starts rolling.

DUDE

What the hell is this?

WALTER

My dirty undies. Laundry, Dude.

The whites.

DUDE

Agh--

He closes the briefcase.

DUDE

Walter, I'm sure there's a reason

you brought your dirty undies--

WALTER

Thaaaat's right, Dude. The weight.

The ringer can't look empty.

DUDE

Walter--what the fuck are you

thinking?

WALTER

Well you're right, Dude, I got to

thinking. I got to thinking why

should we settle for a measly fucking

twenty grand--

DUDE

We? What the fuck we? You said you

just wanted to come along--

WALTER

My point, Dude, is why should we

settle for twenty grand when we can

keep the entire million. Am I wrong?

DUDE

Yes you're wrong. This isn't a

fucking game, Walter--

WALTER

It is a fucking game. You said so

yourself, Dude--she kidnapped herself--

DUDE '

Yeah, but--

The phone chirps. Dude grabs it.

DUDE

Dude here.

VOICE

(German accent)

Who is this?

DUDE

Dude the Bagman. Where do you want

us to go?

VOICE

...Us?

DUDE

Shit. . . Uh, yeah, you know, me and the driver. I'm not

handling the money and driving the car and talking on the

phone all by my fucking--

VOICE

Shut the fuck up.

(Beat)

Hello?

DUDE

Yeah?

VOICE

Okay, listen--

Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:

WALTER

Dude, are you fucking this up?

VOICE

Who is that?

DUDE

The driver man, I told you--

Click. Dial tone.

DUDE

Oh shit. Walter.

WALTER

What the fuck is going on there?

DUDE

They hung up, Walter! You fucked it

up! You fucked it up! Her life was

in our hands!

WALTER

Easy, Dude.

DUDE

We're screwed now! We don't get

shit and they're gonna kill her!

We're fucked, Walter!

WALTER

Dude, nothing is fucked. Come on.

You're being very unDude. They'll

call back. Look, she kidnapped her--

The phone chirps.

WALTER

Ya see? Nothing is fucked up here,

Dude. Nothing is fucked. These

guys are fucking amateurs--

DUDE

Shutup, Walter! Don't fucking say

peep when I'm doing business here.

WALTER

(patronizing)

Okay Dude. Have it your way.

The Dude unclips the phone from the battery pack.

WALTER

But they're amateurs.

The Dude glares at Walter. Into the phone:

DUDE

Dude here.

VOICE

Okay, vee proceed. But only if there

is no funny stuff.

DUDE

Yeah.

VOICE

So no funny stuff. Okay?

DUDE

Hey, just tell me where the fuck you

want us to go.

A HIGHWAY SIGN: SIMI VALLEY ROAD

It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.

DUDE

That was the sign.

Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.

WALTER

Yeah. So as long as we get her back,

nobody's in a position to complain.

And we keep the baksheesh.

DUDE

Terrific, Walter. But you haven't

told me how we get her back. Where

is she?

WALTER

That's the simple part, Dude. When

we make the handoff, I grab the guy

and beat it out of him.

He looks at the Dude.

WALTER

...Huh?

DUDE

Yeah. That's a great plan, Walter.

That's fucking ingenious, if I

understand it correctly. That's a

Swiss fucking watch.

WALTER

Thaaat's right, Dude. The beauty of

this is its simplicity. If the plan

gets too complex something always

goes wrong. If there's one thing I

learned in Nam--

The phone chirps.

DUDE

Dude.

VOICE

You are approaching a vooden britch.

When you cross it you srow ze bag

from ze left vindow of ze moving

kar. Do not slow down. Vee vatch

you.

Click. Dial tone.

DUDE

FUCK.

WALTER

What'd he say? Where's the hand-

off?

DUDE

There is no fucking hand-off, Walter!

At a wooden bridge we throw the money

out of the car!

WALTER

Huh?

DUDE

We throw the money out of the moving

car!

Walter stares dumbly for a beat.

WALTER

We can't do that, Dude. That fucks

up our plan.

DUDE

Well call them up and explain it to

'em, Walter! Your plan is so fucking

simple, I'm sure they'd fucking

understand it! That's the beauty of

it Walter!

WALTER

Wooden bridge, huh?

DUDE

I'm throwing the money, Walter!

We're not fucking around!

WALTER

The bridge is coming up! Gimme the

ringer, Dude! Chop-chop!

DUDE

Fuck that! I love you, Walter, but

sooner or later you're gonna have to

face the fact that you're a goddamn

moron.

WALTER

Okay, Dude. No time to argue. Here's

the bridge--

There is the bump and new steady of the car on the bridge.

The Dude is twisting around to pull the money briefcase from

the back seat. Walter reaches one arm across Dude's body to

grab the laundry.

And there goes the ringer.

He flings it out the window.

DUDE

Walter!

WALTER

Your wheel, Dude! I'm rolling out!

DUDE

What the fuck?

WALTER

Your wheel! At fifteen em-pee-aitch

I roll out! I double back, grab one

of 'em and beat it out of him! The

uzi!

DUDE

Uzi?

Walter points across the seat at the paper-wrapped bundle.

WALTER

You didn't think I was rolling out

of here naked!

DUDE

Walter, please--

Walter has flung open his door and is leaning halfway out

over the road.

WALTER

Fifteen! This is it, Dude! Let's

take that hill!

Walter rolls out with his parcel, giving a loud grunt as he

hits the pavement. The car swerves and lurches and the Dude,

cursing, takes the wheel.

OUTSIDE

Walter tumbles onto the shoulder and--RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!--muzzle

flashes tear open the wrapping paper.

INSIDE THE CAR

The car rocks and the Dude wrestles with the wheel.

OUTSIDE

The car clunks and screams around in a skid.

INSIDE

The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something.

OUTSIDE

As the Dude struggles out holding the satchel of money. The

front of his car is crumpled into a tree. The car body saps

back to the left, where the rear wheel has been shot out.

WALTER is just rising from the ground massaging an

injured knee.

The Dude runs up the road toward the bridge,

frantically waving the satchel in the air.

DUDE

WE HAVE IT! WE HAVE IT!!

There is a distant engine roar. A motorcycle bumps up onto

the road from the ravine under the bridge and, tires

squealing, skids around to speed away in the opposite

direction. It is closely followed by two more roaring

motorcycles.

DUDE

WE HAVE IT!!. . . We have it!

The Dude and Walter stand in the middle of the road, watching

the three red tail lights fishtail away.

AFTER A LONG STARING SILENCE:

WALTER

Ahh fuck it, let's go bowling.

BOWLING LANE

A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.

WALTER.

He turns from the lane to where the Dude sits in the nook of

molded plastic chairs. The Dude listlessly holds the portable

phone in his lap. It is ringing.

WALTER

Aitz chaim he, Dude. As the ex used

to say.

DUDE

What the fuck is that supposed to

mean? What the fuck're we gonna

tell Lebowski?

WALTER

Huh? Oh, him, yeah. Well I don't

see, um-- what exactly is the problem?

The portable phone stops ringing.

DUDE

Huh? The problem is--what do you

mean what's the--there's no--we didn't--

they're gonna kill that poor woman--

WALTER

What the fuck're you talking about?

That poor woman--that poor slut--

kidnapped herself, Dude. You said

so yourself--

DUDE

No, Walter! I said I thought she

kidnapped herself! You're the one

who's so fucking certain--

WALTER

That's right, Dude, 1 % certain--

Donny is trotting excitedly up.

DONNY

They posted the next round of the

tournament--

WALTER

Donny, shut the f--when do we play?

DONNY

This Saturday. Quintana and--

WALTER

Saturday! Well they'll have to

reschedule.

DUDE

Walter, what'm I gonna tell Lebowski?

WALTER

I told that fuck down at the league

office-- who's in charge of

scheduling?

DUDE

Walter--

DONNY

Burkhalter.

WALTER

I told that kraut a fucking thousand

times I don't roll on shabbas.

DONNY

It's already posted.

WALTER

WELL THEY CAN FUCKING UN-POST IT!

DUDE

Who gives a shit, Walter? What about

that poor woman? What do we tell--

WALTER

C'mon Dude, eventually she'll get

sick of her little game and, you

know, wander back--

DONNY

How come you don't roll on Saturday,

Walter?

WALTER

I'm shomer shabbas.

DONNY

What's that, Walter?

DUDE

Yeah, and in the meantime what do I

tell Lebowski?

WALTER

Saturday is shabbas. Jewish day of

rest. Means I don't work, I don't

drive a car, I don't fucking ride in

a car, I don't handle money, I don't

turn on the oven, and I sure as shit

don't fucking roll!

DONNY

Sheesh.

DUDE

Walter, how--

WALTER

Shomer shabbas.

The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.

DUDE

That's it. I'm out of here.

WALTER

For Christ's sake, Dude.

Walter and Donny join the Dude as he walks out of the bowling

alley.

Hell, you just tell him--well, you tell him, uh, we made the

hand-off, everything went, uh, you know--

DONNY

Oh yeah, how'd it go?

WALTER

Went alright. Dude's car got a little

dinged up--

DUDE

But Walter, we didn't make the fucking

hand- off! They didn't get, the

fucking money and they're gonna--

they're gonna--

WALTER

Yeah yeah, "kill that poor woman."

He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.

WALTER

Kill that poor woman.

DONNY

Walter, if you can't ride in a car,

how d'you get around on Shammas--

WALTER

Really, Dude, you surprise me.

They're not gonna kill shit. They're

not gonna do shit. What can they

do? Fuckin' amateurs. And meanwhile,

look at the bottom line. Who's

sitting on a million fucking dollars?

Am I wrong?

DUDE

Walter--

WALTER

Who's got a fucking million fucking

dollars parked in the trunk of our

car out here?

DUDE

"Our" car, Walter?

WALTER

And what do they got, Dude? My dirty

undies. My fucking whites--Say,

where is the car?

The three bowlers, stopped at the edge of the lot, stare out

at an empty parking space.

DONNY

Who has your undies, Walter?

WALTER

Where's your car, Dude?

DUDE

You don't know, Walter? You seem to

know the answer to everything else!

WALTER

Hmm. Well, we were in a handicapped

spot. It, uh, it was probably towed.

DUDE

It's been stolen, Walter! You fucking

know it's been stolen!

WALTER

Well, certainly that's a possibility,

Dude--

DUDE

Aw, fuck it.

The Dude walks away across the lot. The portable phone starts

ringing again.

DONNY

Where you going, Dude?

DUDE

I'm going home, Donny.

DONNY

Your phone's ringing, Dude.

DUDE

Thank you, Donny.

DUDE'S LIVING ROOM

The Dude is slumped disconsolately back in his easy chair,

fingers of one hand cupped over his sunglasses. Facing him

on the couch are two uniformed policeman, one middle-aged,

the other a fresh-faced rookie.

At the cut the portable phone, in the Dude's lap, is chirping.

The Dude waits for the rings to end. When they do:

DUDE

1972 Pontiac LeBaron.

YOUNGER COP

Color?

DUDE

Green. Some brown, or, uh, rust,

coloration.

YOUNGER COP

And was there anything of value in

the car?

DULLY:

DUDE

Huh? Oh. Yeah. Tape deck. Couple

of Creedence tapes. And there was

a, uh. . . my briefcase.

YOUNGER COP

In the briefcase?

DUDE

Papers. Just papers. You know, my

papers. Business papers.

YOUNGER COP

And what do you do, sir?

DUDE

I'm unemployed.

OLDER COP

...Most people, we're working nights,

they offer us coffee.

There is silence. Dude continues to stare at a spot on the

floor. The older cop stares at him.

DUDE

...Me, I don't drink coffee. But

it's nice when they offer.

AT LENGTH:

DUDE

...Also, my rug was stolen.

YOUNGER COP

Your rug was in the car.

The Dude taps the floor with his foot.

DUDE

No. Here.

YOUNGER COP

Separate incidents?

The Dude stares at the floor.

Silence.

OLDER COP

Snap out of it, son.

The home phone starts ringing--a ring distinct from the

chirp of the portable. The Dude makes no move to answer

it. Finally the rings stop as an answering machine kicks

on.

DUDE

You find them much? Stolen cars?

Dude's Voice on Machine The Dude's not in. Leave a message

after the beep. It takes a minute.

YOUNGER COP

Sometimes. I wouldn't hold out much

hope for the tape deck though. Or

the Creedence tapes.

DUDE

And the, uh, the briefcase?

Beep.

FEMALE VOICE ON MACHINE

Mr. Lebowski, I'd like to see you.

Call when you get home and I'll send

a car for you. My name is Maude

Lebowski. I'm the woman who took

the rug.

Beep. Dial tone.

OLDER COP

Well, I guess we can close the file

on that one.

TRACKING FORWARD

We are moving through the open living area of a large downtown

L.A. loft. A huge unfinished canvas, lit by standing

industrial lights, dominates one wall. The furnishings are

spare given the space. On the floor is the Dude's brilliant

rug.

We hear a rumble like an approaching bowling ball. The Dude,

standing in the middle of the loft, looks into the murky

depths of the cavernous space.

Something huge and white hurtles towards the Dude's head.

As it roars overhead he ducks, and spins to watch it pass.

We see the backside of a naked woman in a sling suspended

from a ceiling track rumbling over a canvas that lies on the

floor. She is holding a paint bucket in one hand and a brush

in the other, with which she flicks paint down at the canvas.

The Dude turns again as he hears running footsteps. Two

young men in paint-spattered shorts, T-shirts and sneakers

reach the sling shortly after it reaches the end of its track

and haul it back for another push.

VOICE

I'll be with you in a minute, Mr.

Lebowski.

She rumbles by in another pass.

All right, we'll do the blue tomorrow. Elfranco. Pedro.

Help me down.

The two men help Maude out of her sling. She is naked

except for leather harness straps which ring her breasts

and wrap her thighs and give her something of a dominatrix

look.

Does the female form make you uncomfor- table, Mr. Lebowski?

DUDE

Is that what that's a picture of?

MAUDE

In a sense, yes. Elfranco, my robe.

My art has been commended as being

strongly vaginal. Which bothers

some men. The word itself makes

some men uncomfortable. Vagina.

DUDE

Oh yeah?

MAUDE

Yes, they don't like hearing it and

find it difficult to say. Whereas

without batting an eye a man will

refer to his "dick" or his "rod" or

his "Johnson".

DUDE

"Johnson"?

MAUDE

Thank you.

This to Elfranco, who has handed her a robe.

All right, Mr. Lebowski, let's get down to cases. My father

told me he's agreed to let you have the rug, but it was a

gift from me to my late mother, and so was not his to give.

Now. As for this. . . "kidnapping"--

DUDE

Huh?

MAUDE

Yes, I know about it. And I know

that you acted as courier. And let

me tell you something: the whole

thing stinks to high heaven.

DUDE

Right, but let me explain something

about that rug--

MAUDE

Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?

DUDE

Excuse me?

MAUDE

Sex. The physical act of love.

Coitus. Do you like it?

DUDE

I was talking about my rug.

MAUDE

You're not interested in sex?

DUDE

You mean coitus?

MAUDE

I like it too. It's a male myth

about feminists that we hate sex.

It can be a natural, zesty enterprise.

But unfortunately there are some

people--it is called satyriasis in

men, nymphomania in women--who engage

in it compulsively and without joy.

DUDE

Oh, no.

MAUDE

Yes Mr. Lebowski, these unfortunate

souls cannot love in the true sense

of the word. Our mutual acquaintance

Bunny is one of these.

DUDE

Listen, Maude, I'm sorry if your

stepmother is a nympho, but I don't

see what it has to do with--do you

have any kalhua?

MAUDE

Take a look at this, sir.

She is aiming a remote at a projection TV. The screen

flickers to life. A title card:

JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

SECOND CARD:

KARL HUNGUS

AND

BUNNY LAJOYA

IN

A THIRD CARD:

LOGJAMMIN'

The Dude is at the bar, a bottle of kalhua frozen halfway

to his glass.

From the television set we hear a doorbell ring, and then a

door opening.

On the TV screen the door opens to reveal a sallow-faced

man in blue coyer-alls. It is Dieter, the floater in

Lebowski's pool.

DIETER

Hello. Nein dizbatcher says zere

iss problem mit deine kable.

DUDE

Shit, I know that guy. He's a

nihilist.

MAUDE

And you recognize her, of course.

The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.

Bunny The TV is in here.

DIETER

Za, okay, I bring mein toolz.

Bunny This is my friend Shari. She just came over to use

the shower.

MAUDE

(grimly)

The story is ludicrous.

DIETER

Mein nommen iss Karl. Is hard to

verk in zese clozes--

Maude switches off the set.

MAUDE

Lord. You can imagine where it goes

from here.

DUDE

He fixes the cable?

MAUDE

Don't be fatuous, Jeffrey. Little

matter to me that this woman chose

to pursue a career

in pornography, nor that she has been "banging" Jackie

Treehorn, to use the parlance of our times. However. I am

one of two trustees of the Lebowski Foundation, the other

being my father. The Foundation takes youngsters from Watts

and--

DUDE

Shit yeah, the achievers.

MAUDE

Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,

yes, and proud we are of all of them.

I asked my father about his withdrawal

of a million dollars from the

Foundation account and he told me

about this "abduction", but I tell

you it is preposterous. This

compulsive

fornicator is taking my father for the proverbial ride.

DUDE

Yeah, but my-

MAUDE

I'm getting to your rug. My father

and I don't get along; he doesn't

approve of my lifestyle and, needless

to say, I don't approve of his.

Still, I hardly wish to make my

father's embezzlement a police matter,

so I'm proposing that you try to

recover the money from the people

you delivered it to.

DUDE

Well--sure, I could do that--

MAUDE

If you successfully do so, I will

compensate you to the tune of 1% of

the recovered sum.

DUDE

A hundred.

MAUDE

Thousand, yes, bones or clams or

whatever you call them.

DUDE

Yeah, but what about--

MAUDE

--your rug, yes, well with that money

you can buy any number of rugs that

don't have sentimental value for me.

And I am sorry about that crack on

the jaw.

The Dude fingers his jaw, where the lump from the sap has

all but disappeared.

DUDE

Oh that's okay, I hardly even--

MAUDE

Here's the name and number of a doctor

who will look at it for you. You

will receive no bill. He's a good

man, and thorough.

DUDE

That's really thoughtful but I--

MAUDE

Please see him, Jeffrey. He's a

good man, and thorough.

LIMO

The Dude sits in back holding a White Russian, listening to

the chauffeur, a man of about the same age from whose livery

cap a ponytail emerges.

DRIVER

--So he says, "My son can't hold a

job, my daughter's married to a

fuckin' loser, and I got a rash on

my ass so bad I can't hardly siddown.

But you know me. I can't complain."

THROUGH RASPING LAUGHTER:

DUDE

Fuckin' A, man. I got a rash.

Fuckin' A, man. I gotta tell ya

Tony.

He takes a sip of a freshly-mixed White Russian, which leaves

milk on his mustache.

I was feeling really shitty earlier in the day, I'd lost a

little money, I was down in the dumps.

TONY

Aw, forget about it.

DUDE

Yeah, man! Fuck it! I can't be

worrying about that shit. Life goes

on!

The limo has rolled to a stop. The Dude gets out, still

holding his drink.

 
TONY

Home sweet home, Mr. L. Who's your

friend in the Volkswagon?

DUDE

Huh?

His eyes on the rearview mirror, Tony jerks a thumb over his

shoulder.

He followed us here.

The Dude turns to look.

HIS POV

Halfway up the block a Volkswagon bug has pulled over to the

curb. In the driver's seat we see a fat man's shape.

THE DUDE

He scowls.

DUDE

When did he-

The Dude is grabbed from behind and muscled away in a half-

nelson by another uniformed chauffeur.

SECOND CHAUFFEUR

Into the limo, you sonofabitch. No

arguments.

As he is frog-marched towards another limo the Dude holds

his drink away from his chest and cups a hand underneath it.

DUDE

Fuck, man! There's a beverage here!

The waiting limo's back door is flung open.

INSIDE

The Dude is shoved in and awkwardly takes a seat facing the

rear. The door is slammed behind him.

LEBOWSKI

Start talking and talk fast you lousy

bum!

BRANDT

We've been frantically trying to

reach you, Dude.

Brandt sits catty-corner from the Dude; directly across from

the Dude is the big Lebowski, a comforter across his knees.

LEBOWSKI

Where's my goddamn money, you bum?!

DUDE

Well we--I don't--

LEBOWSKI

They did not receive the money, you

nitwit! They did not receive the

goddamn money. HER LIFE WAS IN YOUR

HANDS!

BRANDT

This is our concern, Dude.

DUDE

No, man, nothing is fucked here--

LEBOWSKI

NOTHING IS FUCKED! THE GODDAMN PLANE

HAS CRASHED INTO THE MOUNTAIN!

The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.

DUDE

C'mon man, who're you gonna believe?

Those guys are--we dropped off the

damn money--

LEBOWSKI

WHAT?!

DUDE

I--the royal we, you know, the

editorial--I dropped off the money,

exactly as per--Look, I've got certain

information, certain things have

come to light, and uh, has it ever

occurred to you, man, that given the

nature of all this new shit, that,

uh, instead of running around blaming

me, that this whole thing might just

be, not, you know, not just such a

simple, but uh--you know?

LEBOWSKI

What in God's holy name are you

blathering about?

DUDE

I'll tell you what I'm blathering

about! I got information--new shit

has come to light and--shit, man!

She kidnapped herself!

Lebowski stares at him, dumbstruck. The Dude is encouraged.

DUDE

Well sure, look at it! Young trophy

wife, I mean, in the parlance of our

times, owes money all over town,

including to known pornographers--

and that's cool, that's cool-- but

I'm saying, she needs money, and of

course they're gonna say they didn't

get it 'cause she wants more, man,

she's gotta feed the monkey, I mean--

hasn't that ever occurred to you...?

Sir?

LEBOWSKI

(quietly)

No. No Mr. Lebowski, that had not

occurred to me.

BRANDT

That had not occurred to us, Dude.

DUDE

Well, okay, you're not privy to all

the new shit, so uh, you know, but

that's what you pay me for. Speaking

of which, would it be possible for

me to get my twenty grand in cash?

I gotta check this with my accountant

of course, but my concern is that,

you know, it could bump me into a

higher tax--

LEBOWSKI

Brandt, give him the envelope.

DUDE

Well, okay, if you've already made

out the check. Brandt is handing

him a letter-sized envelope which is

distended by something inside.

BRANDT

We received it this morning.

The Dude, frowning, untucks its flap, takes out some cotton

wadding and unrolls it.

LEBOWSKI

Since you have failed to achieve,

even in the modest task that was

your charge, since you have stolen

my money, and since you have

unrepentantly betrayed my trust.

The wadding, undone, reveals a smaller wad of gauze taped up

inside. The Dude undoes the tape with his fingernails and

starts to unroll the inner package.

LEBOWSKI

I have no choice but to tell these

bums that they should do whatever is

necessary to recover their money

from you, Jeffrey Lebowski. And

with Brandt as my witness, tell you

this: Any further harm visited upon

Bunny, shall be visited tenfold upon

your head.

Between thumb and forefinger the Dude holds up the contents

of the package--a little toe, with emerald green nail polish.

LEBOWSKI

...By God sir. I will not abide

another toe.

COFFEE SHOP

The Dude and Walter sit at the counter, both staring off

into space, both absently stirring their coffee with little

clinking noises.

AFTER A LONG BEAT:

WALTER

That wasn't her toe.

DUDE

Whose toe was it, Walter?

WALTER

How the fuck should I know? I do

know that nothing about it indicates--

DUDE

The nail polish, Walter.

WALTER

Fine, Dude. As if it's impossible

to get some nail polish, apply it to

someone else's toe--

DUDE

Someone else's--where the fuck are

they gonna--

WALTER

You want a toe? I can get you a

toe, believe me. There are ways,

Dude. You don't wanna know about

it, believe me.

DUDE

But Walter--

WALTER

I'll get you a toe by this

afternoon--with nail polish. These

fucking amateurs. They send us a

toe, we're supposed to shit our-

selves with fear. Jesus Christ. My

point is--

DUDE

They're gonna kill her, Walter, and

then they're gonna kill me--

WALTER

Well that's just, that's the stress

talking, Dude. So far we have what

looks to me like a series of

victimless crimes--

DUDE

What about the toe?

WALTER

FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!

A waitress enters.

WAITRESS

Could you please keep your voices

down--this is a family restaurant.

WALTER

Oh, please dear! I've got news for

you: the Supreme Court has roundly

rejected prior restraint!

DUDE

Walter, this isn't a First Amendment

thing.

WAITRESS

Sir, if you don't calm down I'm going

to have to ask you to leave.

WALTER

Lady, I got buddies who died face-

down in the muck so you and I could

enjoy this family restaurant!

THE DUDE GETS UP:

DUDE

All right, I'm leaving. I'm sorry

ma'am.

WALTER

Don't run away from this, Dude!

Goddamnit, this affects all of us!

The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:

WALTER

Our basic freedoms!

He looks defiantly around.

WALTER

I'm staying. Finishing my coffee.

He stirs the coffee, bopping his head in time to the Muzak,

affecting nonchalance.

WALTER

Finishing my coffee.

DUDE'S BATHROOM

A dripping noise.

The Dude sits in the bathtub, staring stuporously, a joint

pinched in one hand, a washcloth draped over his head.

We hear the phone ringing in the other roam.

The Dude is staring at his toes, which protrude from the

soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.

After the Dude's outgoing message we hear:

VOICE THROUGH MACHINE

Mr. Lebowski, this is Duty Officer

Rolvaag of the L.A.P.D.

The Dude looks stuporously up, his head swaying.

VOICE THROUGH MACHINE

We've recovered your vehicle. It

can be claimed at the North Hollywood

Auto Circus there on Victory.

DUDE

Far out. Far fuckin' out.

MESSAGE

You'll just need to present a--

The message is interrupted by loud smashing sounds, as of

someone applying a baseball bat to the answering machine.

DUDE

Hunh?

He looks blearily at the open doorway.

A tall man dressed in black leather with a cricket paddle is

striding across the living room towards the bathroom.

DUDE

Hey! This is a private residence,

man!

The man has entered the bathroom and, in stride, swings the

cricket paddle up to smash the overhead light. Two other

men are entering behind him.

The room is dark now except for spill from the living room;

the men are backlit shapes.

One of them holds a string at the other end of which a small

animal skitters excitedly about the floor.

The Dude looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.

DUDE

Nice marmot.

The man with the string scoops up the marmot and tosses it,

screaming, into the bathtub.

The Dude screams.

The marmot splashes frantically, biting at the Dude in a

frenzy of fearful aggression.

FIRST MAN

Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

The Dude, screaming, grabs the lip of the tub and starts to

hoist himself up but the first man lays a palm on top of his

head and squishes him back into the water.

SECOND MAN

You think veer kidding und making

mit de funny stuff?

THIRD MAN

Vee could do things you only dreamed

of, Lebowski.

SECOND MAN

Ja, vee could really do it, Lebowski.

Vee belief in nossing.

He scoops the marmot out of the water. It shakes itself

off, spraying the Dude.

DUDE

Jesus!

DIETER

Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!

NOSSING!!

The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking

itself and convulsing in little sneezes.

DUDE

Jesus Christ!

FIRST MAN

Tomorrow vee come back und cut off

your chonson.

DUDE

Excuse me?

FIRST MAN

I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON!

The three men turn to leave. Over their retreating backs:

SECOND MAN

Just sink about zat, Lebowski.

FIRST MAN

Ja, your viggly penis, Lebowski.

SECOND MAN

Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und

skvush it, Lebowski!

NORTH HOLLYWOOD AUTO CIRCUS

A policeman with a clipboard is leading the Dude through a

large parking lot.

POLICEMAN

You're lucky she wasn't chopped, Mr.

Lebowski. Must've been a joyride

situation; they abandoned the car

once they hit the retaining wall.

They have reached the Dude's car. The driver's side

exterior has been scraped raw. The policeman hands the Dude

a door handle and an exterior rear-view mirror.

POLICEMAN

These were on the road next to the

car. You'll have to get in on the

other side.

The Dude climbs in the passenger side.

DUDE

My fucking briefcase! It's not here!

POLICEMAN

Yeah, sorry, I saw that on the report.

You're lucky they left the tape deck

though.

DUDE

My fucking briefcase! Jesus--what's

that smell?

POLICEMAN

Uh, yeah. Probably a vagrant, slept

in the car. Or perhaps just used it

as a toilet, and moved on.

The Dude tries to roll down the driver's window but it will

not go; he bellows through the glass:

DUDE

When will you find these guys? I

mean, do you have any promising leads?

The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.

POLICEMAN

Leads, yeah. I'll just check with

the boys down at the Crime Lab.

They've assigned four more detectives

to the case, got us working in shifts.

The Dude looks sadly through his window at the policeman

rocking back on his heels, his raucous laughter muffled by

the glass.

BOWLING ALLEY BAR

The Dude, Walter and Donny sit at the bar, the Dude with a

White Russian, Walter with a beer, and Donny eating beer

nuts.

DONNY

And then they're gonna stamp on it?!

WALTER

Oh for Christ--will you shut the

fuck up, Donny.

DUDE

I figure my only hope is that the

big Lebowski kills me before the

Germans can cut my dick off.

WALTER

Now that is ridiculous, Dude. No

one is going to cut your dick off.

DUDE

Thanks Walter.

WALTER

Not if I have anything to say about

it.

DUDE

(bitterly)

Yeah, thanks Walter. That gives me

a very secure feeling.

WALTER

Dude--

DUDE

That makes me feel all warm inside.

WALTER

Now Dude--

DUDE

This whole fucking thing--I could

be sitting here with just pee-stains

on my rug.

Walter sadly shakes his head.

WALTER

Fucking Germans. Nothing changes.

Fucking Nazis.

DONNY

They were Nazis, Dude?

WALTER

Come on, Donny, they were threatening

castration!

DONNY

Uh-huh.

WALTER

Are you gonna split hairs?

DONNY

No--

WALTER

Am I wrong?

DONNY

Well--

DUDE

They're nihilists.

WALTER

Huh?

DUDE

They kept saying they believe in

nothing.

WALTER

Nihilists! Jesus.

Walter looks haunted.

Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism,

Dude, at least it's an ethos.

DUDE

Yeah.

WALTER

And let's also not forget--let's not

forget, Dude--that keeping wildlife,

an amphibious rodent, for uh,

domestic, you know, within the city--

that isn't legal either.

DUDE

What're you, a fucking park ranger

now?

WALTER

No, I'm--

DUDE

Who gives a shit about the fucking

marmot!

WALTER

--We're sympathizing here, Dude--

DUDE

Fuck your sympathy! I don't need

your sympathy, man, I need my fucking

Johnson!

DONNY

What do you need that for, Dude?

WALTER

You gotta buck up, man, you can't go

into the tournament with this negative

attitude--

DUDE

Fuck the tournament! Fuck you,

Walter!

There is a moment of stunned silence.

WALTER

Fuck the tournament?!

SAD; QUIET:

WALTER

Okay Dude. I can see you don't want

to be cheered up. C'mon Donny, let's

go get a lane.

They leave the Dude sitting morosely at the bar. As he stares

DOWN INTO HIS EMPTY GLASS:

DUDE

Another Caucasian, Gary.

VOICE

Right, Dude.

STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:

DUDE

Friends like these, huh Gary.

GARY

That's right, Dude.

The pop song on the jukebox has ended; someone puts on

"Tumbling Tumbleweeds."

A man saunters up to the bar to take the stool that Walter

vacated. He is middle-aged, amiable, craggily handsome--Sam

Elliot, perhaps. He has a large Western-style mustache and

wears denims, a yoked shirt and a cowboy hat.

TO THE BARTENDER:

MAN

D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?

We recognize the voice of The Stranger whose narration opened

the movie.

BARTENDER

Sioux City Sarsaparilla.

The Stranger nods.

THE STRANGER

That's a good one.

Waiting for his drink, he looks amiably around the bar. His

crinkled eyes settle on the Dude.

THE STRANGER

How ya doin' there, Dude?

The Dude, still staring down at his drink, shakes his head.

DUDE

Ahh, not so good, man.

THE STRANGER

One a those days, huh. Wal, a wiser

fella than m'self once said, sometimes

you eat the bar and sometimes the

bar, wal, he eats you.

DUDE

(absently)

Uh-huh. That some kind of Eastern

thing?

THE STRANGER

Far from it.

DUDE

Mm.

The bartender puts a brown bottle and a frosted glass on the

bar in front of The Stranger, who touches his hat brim.

THE STRANGER

Much obliged.

He looks back at the Dude.

THE STRANGER

I like your style, Dude.

THE DUDE LOOKS UP, ABSENTLY:

DUDE

Well I like your style too, man.

Got a whole cowboy thing goin'.

THE STRANGER

Thankie. . . Just one thing, Dude.

D'ya have to use s'many cuss words?

The Dude looks at The Stranger as if just now noticing how

out of place the cowpoke is.

DUDE

The fuck are you talking about?

The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the

bar.

THE STRANGER

Okay, have it your way.

He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.

THE STRANGER

Take it easy, Dude.

DUDE

Yeah. Thanks man.

He is gone. "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" is ending as we hear an

offscreen voice, breaking the spell:

VOICE

Dude! Dude!

THE DUDE LOOKS:

Tony, the unformed limo driver, is at the door of the bar,

beckoning.

MAUDE'S LOFT

She strides toward us, naked under a robe which she is just

cinching shut. Paint flecks her skin.

MAUDE

Jeffrey, you haven't gone to the

doctor.

DUDE

No it's fine, really, uh--

MAUDE

Do you have any news regarding my

father's money?

DUDE

I, uh... money, yeah, I gotta

respecfully, 69 you know, tender my

resignation on that matter, 'cause

it looks like your mother really was

kidnapped after all.

MAUDE

She most certainly was not!

DUDE

Hey man, why don't you fucking listen

occasionally? You might learn

something. Now I got--

MAUDE

And please don't call her my mother.

DUDE

Now I got--

MAUDE

She is most definitely the perpetrator

and not the victim.

DUDE

I'm telling you, I got definitive

evidence--

MAUDE

From who?

DUDE

The main guy, Dieter--

MAUDE

Dieter Hauff?

DUDE

Well--yeah, I guess--

MAUDE

Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?

DUDE

Beaver? You mean vagina?--I mean,

you know him?

MAUDE

Dieter has been on the fringes of--

well, of everything in L.A., for

about twenty years. Look at my LP's.

Under 'Autobahn.'

The Dude fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.

MAUDE

That was his group--they released

one album in the mid-seventies.

The Dude stops between two albums.

DUDE

Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.

MAUDE

Huh? Autobahn. A-u-t-o. Their

music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop.

The Dude pulls out an album with a worn sleeve. On it is

the group's name, Autobahn, the album name, Nagelbett, and a

picture

OF THREE YOUNG GERMANS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW

SLICKED-

back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany. They are

wearing severe but modishly retro suits. Each has his name

under his picture--Dieter, Kieffer; and Franz. A bed of

nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.

DUDE

Jeez. I miss vinyl.

MAUDE

Is he pretending to be the abductor?

DUDE

Well...yeah--

MAUDE

Look, Jeffrey, you don't really

kidnap someone that you're acquainted

with. You can't get away with it if

the hostage knows who you are.

DUDE

Well yeah...I know that.

MAUDE

So Dieter has the money?

DUDE

Well, no, not exactly. It's a

complicated case, Maude. Lotta ins.

Lotta outs. And a lotta strands to

keep in my head, man. Lotta strands

in old Duder's--

MAUDE

Do you still have that doctor's

number?

DUDE

Huh? No, really, I don't even have

the bruise any more, I--

She is scribbling.

MAUDE

Please Jeffrey. I don't want to be

responsible for any delayed after-

effects.

DUDE

Delayed after-eff--

MAUDE

I want you to see him immediately.

She is picking up a telephone.

MAUDE

I'll see if he's available. He's a

good man, and thorough.

CLOSE SHOT THE DUDE

His eyes are closed, a headset on, his shirt off. Leaking

tinnily through the headset we hear the opening bars of

"Comin' Up Around the Bend."

Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his torso,

a white-smocked figure taps at the Dude's back. After a

moment the figure circles to one side, out of frame. His

hand reaches in to pull one arm of the headset away from the

Dude's ear, and as he does so the music issues more strongly.

VOICE

Could you slide your shorts down

please, Mr. Lebowski?

The Dude's eyes open.

DUDE

Huh? No, she, she hit me right here.

VOICE

I understand sir. Could you slide

your shorts down please?

DUDE'S CAR

The Dude is driving home. A Creedence tape plays. The Dude

is sucking down a joint. He glances at the rear-view mirror--

and, noticing something, looks again.

HIS POV

A Volkswagon bug is following, a lone fat man driving.

THE DUDE

His eyes still on the mirror, he absently takes the joint

between thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicks it

out the driver's window--except that the window is not open.

The butt bounces off the glass and around the car, showering

sparks.

DUDE'S CROTCH

The glowing butt rolls down the car seat between his legs.

The Dude screams.

THE STREET

The car careens wildly as the surrounding traffic veers off

to, make way, horns blaring. The car finally spins and comes

to rest with its passenger side wrapped into a telephone

poll.

INSIDE THE CAR

The Dude frantically grabs at his door, which won't open,

and then slides over to push at the passenger door, which

also won't open.

DUDE

Fuck Me.

But he is sitting on the passenger side now, away from

the lit butt. He looks around for it.

Smoke is wisping up from between the Driver's seat cushion

and back cushion.

DUDE

Fuckola, man.

He takes his beer and pours it in between the cushions.

There is a hissing sound. But there is a piece of paper

sticking out from between the cushions.

The Dude pulls it out.

It is lined spiral notebook paper, slightly singed and

dripping beer, covered with handwriting. In the upper right-

hand corner is the name Lawrence Sellers, and under that,

Mrs. Jamtoss 5th Period. The theme is titled "The Louisiana

Purchase." In red ink is a large circled D and some

handwritten marginal comments; misspelled words are circled

in red throughout.

CRANE JACKSON'S FOUNTAIN STREET THEATER

We are behind Walter, the Dude, and Donny, facing the stage

in the background where Allan, the Dude's balding landlord,

is performing a dance moderne.

As Walter talks to the Dude he leans in to him, his voice

hushed, so as not to disturb the rest of the very sparse

audience.

WALTER

He lives in North Hollywood on

Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger--

DUDE

The In-and-Out Burger is on Camrose.

WALTER

Near the In-and-Out Burger--

DONNY

Those are good burgers, Walter.

WALTER

Shut the fuck up, Donny. This kid

is in the ninth grade, Dude, and his

father is--are you ready for this?--

Arthur Digby Sellers.

DUDE

Who the fuck is that?

WALTER

Huh?

DUDE

Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?

WALTER

Who the f--have you ever heard of a

little show called Branded, Dude?

DUDE

Yeah.

WALTER

All but one man died? There at Bitter

Creek?

DUDE

Yeah yeah, I know the fucking show

Walter, so what?

WALTER

Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote

156 episodes, Dude.

DUDE

Uh-huh.

WALTER

The bulk of the series.

DUDE

Uh-huh.

WALTER

Not exactly a lightweight.

DUDE

No.

WALTER

And yet his son is a fucking dunce.

DUDE

Uh.

WALTER

Yeah, go figure. Well we'll go out

there after the, uh, the.

He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.

WALTER

What have you. We'll, uh--

DONNY

We'll be near the In-and-Out Burger.

WALTER

Shut the fuck up, Donny. We'll, uh,

brace the kid--he'll be a pushover.

We'll get that fucking money, if he

hasn't spent it already. Million

fucking clams. And yes, we'll be

near the, uh--some burgers, some

beers, a few laughs. Our fucking

troubles are over, Dude.

RESIDENTIAL AREA

The Dude and Walter are pulling up in front of a dilapidated

house sitting on a scrubby lot. Parked incongruously in

front of the house is a brand new red Corvette.

DUDE

Fuck me, man! That kid's already

spent all the money!

WALTER

Hardly Dude, a new 'vette? The kid's

still got, oh, 96 to 97 thousand,

depending on the options. Wait in

the car, Donny.

THE FRONT DOOR

Walter rings the bell. It is opened by a matronly Spanish

woman.

WOMAN

Jace?

WALTER

Hello, Pilar? My name is Walter

Sobchak, we spoke on the phone, this

is my associate Jeffrey Lebowski.

WOMAN

Jace.

WALTER

May we uh, we wanted to talk about

little Larry. May we come in?

WOMAN

Jace.

They enter a dim living room and stand, looking about, as

Pilar

CALLS UP THE STAIRS:

PILAR

Larry! Sweetie! Dat mang is here!

There is a rhythmic compressor sound; Walter places it and

nudges the Dude. At the other end of the living room a man

lies on something that looks like a hospital gurney with its

midsection enclosed by a motorized stainless-steel bubble.

It is an iron lung, artificially breathing with distinct

hisses in and out.

WALTER

That's him, Dude.

VIVA VOCE

And a good day to you, sir.

PILAR

See down, please.

WALTER

Thank you, ma'am.

He and the Dude sit on a sagging green sofa. In a lowered

voice, to Pilar:

WALTER

Does he, uh. . . Is he still writing?

PILAR

No, no. He has healt' problems.

WALTER

Uh-huh.

HE BELLOWS ACROSS THE ROOM:

WALTER

I just want to say, sir, that we're

both enormous--on a personal level,

Branded, especially the early

episodes, has been a source of, uh,

inspir---

There are footsteps on the stairs. Larry, a fifteen-year-

old, looks at the two men.

PILAR

See down, Sweetie. These are the

policeman--

WALTER

No ma'am, I didn't mean to give the

impression that we're police exactly.

We're hoping that it will not be

necessary to call the police.

He adopts his command voice in turning to Larry:

WALTER

But that is up to little Larry here.

Isn't it, Larry?

Walter pops the latches on his attache case and takes out

the homework, which is now in a ziploc bag. He holds it out

at arm's length, displaying it to Larry.

WALTER

Is this your homework, Larry?

Larry does not respond.

WALTER

Is this your homework, Larry?

DUDE

Look, man, did you--

WALTER

Dude, please!. . . Is this your

homework, Larry?

DUDE

Just ask him if he--ask him about

the car, man!

Walter is still holding out the homework.

WALTER

Is this yours, Larry? Is this your

homework, Larry?

DUDE

Is the car out front yours?

WALTER

Is this your homework, Larry?

DUDE

We know it's his fucking homework,

Walter! Where's the fucking money,

you little brat?

Throughout Walter has been staring at Larry with the homework

extended towards him.

WALTER

Look, Larry. . . Have you ever heard

of Vietnam?

DUDE

Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter!

WALTER

You're going to enter a world of

pain, son. We know that this is

your homework. We know you stole a

car--

DUDE

And the fucking money!

WALTER

And the fucking money. And we know

that this is your homework, Larry.

No answer.

WALTER

You're gonna KILL your FATHER, Larry!.

FINALLY, IN DISGUST:

WALTER

Ah, this is pointless.

As he shoves the homework back in the attache case:

WALTER

All right, Plan B. You might want

to watch out the front window there,

Larry.

He is heading for the door. The Dude, puzzled, rises to

follow him.

WALTER

This is what happens when you FUCK a

STRANGER in the ASS, Larry.

OUTSIDE

Walter is striding down the lawn with his attache case like

an enraged encyclopedia salesman. Without looking back at,

the Dude, who follows:

WALTER

Fucking language problem, Dude.

He pops the Dude's trunk, flings in the briefcase and takes

out a tire iron.

WALTER

Maybe he'll understand this.

He is walking over to the Corvette.

WALTER

YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

CRASH! He swings the crowbar into the windshield, which

shatters.

WALTER

YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!

CRASH! He takes out the driver's window.

WALTER

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK A

STRANGER IN THE ASS!

Lights are going on in houses down the street. Distant dogs

bark.

WALTER

HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

CRASH!

WALTER

HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS! FUCK A STRANGER

IN THE ASS!

CRASH!

A man in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts has run over

behind Walter and grabbed him from behind on a backswing of

the crowbar.

MAN

WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?!

He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.

MAN

I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!

Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.

WALTER

Hunh?

The man looks about, wildly.

MAN

I KILL JOO, MANG! I--I KILL JOR

FUCKEEN CAR!

He runs over to the Dude's car.

DUDE

No! No! NO! THAT'S NOT--

CRASH! CRASH!

MAN

I FUCKEEN KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

CRASH!

MAN

I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

INSIDE THE CAR

Glass rains in on a terrified, cringing, Donny.

MAN

I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

ON A DEAFENING CRASH WE CUT TO:

THE DUDE'S CAR

We are looking into the car through the broken windshield as

it rattles down the freeway. Wind whistles through the caved-

in windows.

The Dude drives, his jaw clenched, staring grimly out at the

road. Walter, beside him, and Donny in the back seat, munch

'on In-and-Out Burgers.

Creedence music plays above the bluster of wind.

DUDE'S BUNGALOW

As the Dude talks on the phone he is hammering a two-by-four

into the floor just inside, and parallel to, the front door.

DUDE

I accept your apology. . . No I, I

just want to handle it myself from

now on. . . No. That has nothing to

do with it. . . .Yes, it made it

home, I'm calling from home. No,

Walter, it didn't look like Larry

was about to crack.

He finishes hammering, rises and grabs a straightbacked chair

that stands nearby.

DUDE

Well that's your perception. . .

Well you're right, Walter, and the

unspoken Message is FUCK YOU AND

LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. . . Yeah,

I'll be at practice.

He hangs up and has just finished sliding the chair into

place with its top under the doorknob and its legs braced

against the two-by-four, thus wedging the door closed, when

the door is opened--outwards. The chair clatters to the

floor.

DUDE

Huh?

Woo and the blond man who earlier peed on the rug stride in,

kicking the chair away.

WOO

Pin your diapers on, Lebowski. Jackie

Treehorn wants to see you.

BLOND MAN

And we know which Lebowski you are,

Lebowski.

WOO

Yeah. Jackie Treehorn wants to talk

to the deadbeat Lebowski.

BLOND MAN

You're not dealing with morons here.

BLACKNESS

Out of the blackness something is falling toward us. It is

a woman, falling in slow motion, her limbs flailing, her

mouth contorted by either fear or ecstasy. She is topless.

She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a

beat reappears, rising into the night sky.

MALIBU BEACH

A crowd of mostly tanned middle-aged men with blow-dried

hair, wearing jogging outfits and other expensively casual

attire, are blanket-tossing the squealing young woman in

nightmarish slow motion.

WIDER

It is a party, lit by festive beach lights and standing

kerosene heaters. 1960's mainstream jazz, of the Mancini-

Brubeck school, has been piped down to speakers on the beach'.

In long shot now the woman rises, squealing, disappears

into darkness, descends into light, rises again.

A man walks towards the camera through the pools of beach

light. He is handsome, fiftyish, wearing cotton twill pants

and a Turnbull & Asher shirt with a foulard knotted at the

neck. Behind him, the woman rises and falls, appears and

disappears.

MAN

Hello Dude, thanks for coming. I'm

Jackie Treehorn.

INS
 
INSIDE THE BEACH HOUSE

The Dude is looking around at the '60's modern decor.

DUDE

This is quite a pad you got here,

man. Completely unspoiled.

TREEHORN

What's your drink, Dude?

DUDE

White Russian, thanks. How's the

smut business, Jackie?

TREEHORN

I wouldn't know, Dude. I deal in

publishing, entertainment, political

advocacy, and--

DUDE

Which one was Logjammin'?

TREEHORN

Regrettably, it's true, standards

have fallen in adult entertainment.

It's video, Dude. Now that we're

competing with the amateurs, we can't

afford to invest that little extra

in story, production value, feeling.

He taps his forehead with one finger.

TREEHORN

People forget that the brain is the

biggest erogenous zone--

DUDE

On you, maybe.

He hands him the drink.

TREEHORN

Of course, you do get the good with

the bad. The new technology permits

us to do exciting things with

interactive erotic software. Wave

of the future, Dude. 100% electronic.

DUDE

Uh-huh. Well, I still jerk off

manually.

TREEHORN

Of course you do. I can see you're

anxious for me to get to the point.

Well Dude, here it is. Where's Bunny?

DUDE

I thought you might know, man.

TREEHORN

Me? How would I know? The only

reason she ran off was to get away

from her rather sizable debt to me.

DUDE

But she hasn't run off, she's been--

Treehorn waves this off.

TREEHORN

I've heard the kidnapping story, so

save it. I know you're mixed up in

all this, Dude, and I don't care

what you're trying to take off her

husband. That's your business. All

I'm saying is, I want mine.

DUDE

Yeah, well, right man, there are

many facets to this, uh, you know,

many interested parties. If I can

find your money, man-- what's in it

for the Dude?

TREEHORN

Of course, there's that to discuss.

Refill?

DUDE

Does the Pope shit in the woods?

TREEHORN

Let's say a 10% finder's fee?

DUDE

Okay, Jackie, done. I like the way

you do business. Your money is being

held by a kid named Larry Sellers.

He lives in North Hollywood, on

Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger.

A real fuckin' brat, but I'm sure

your goons'll be able to get it off

him, mean he's only fifteen and he's

flunking social studies. So if you'll

just write me a check for my ten per

cent. . . of half a million. . .

fifty grand.

He is getting to his feet, but sways woozily.

DUDE

I'll go out and mingle.--Jesus, you

mix a hell of a Caucasian, Jackie.

The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus.

TREEHORN

A fifteen-year-old? Is this your

idea of a joke?

Jackie Treehorn's image starts to swim. He is joined on

either side by Woo and the blond man, all three men looking

grimly down at the Dude.

DUDE

No funny stuff, Jackie. . . the kid's

got it. Hiya, fellas. . . kid just

wanted a car. All the Dude ever

wanted. . . was his rug back. . .

not greedy. . . it really.

He squints at Jackie Treehorn, who swims in and out of focus.

Tied the room together.

He tips forward, spilling his drink off the table.

FROM UNDER THE GLASS COFFEE TABLE

Looking up at the Dude as his face hits the glass and

squishes.

FAST FADE OUT

BLACK

THE STRANGER'S VOICE

Darkness warshed over the Dude--

darker'n a black steer's tookus on a

moonless prairie night. There was

no bottom.

We hear a thundering bass.

SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:

JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

ANOTHER TITLE CARD:

THE DUDE

AND

MAUDE LEBOWSKI

IN

THIRD TITLE CARD:

GUTTERBALLS

The title logo is a suggestively upright bowling pin flanked

by a pair of bowling balls. The bending bass sound turns

into the lead-in to Kenny Rogers and the First Edition's

"Just Dropped In."

The Dude is walking down a long corridor dressed as a cable

repairman. The Dude's face is washed with a brilliant light

as the corridor opens onto a gleaming bowling alley.

In the center of the alley stands Maude Lebowski, singing

operatic harmony to the Kenny Rogers song. She wears an

armored breastplate and Norse headgear, has braided pigtails,

and holds a trident.

The Dude stands behind her and, pressed up against her, helps

her with her follow-through as she releases a bowling ball.

The lane is straddled by a line of chorines in spangly mini-

skirts, their arms akimbo, Busby-Berkley style, their legs

turning the lane into a tunnel leading to the pins at the

end.

But it is no longer a bowling ball rolling between their

legs--it is the Dude himself, levitating inches off the lane,

the tools from his utility belt swinging free. He is face

down, his arms, torpedolike, pressed against his sides.

His point of view shows the lane rushing by below, the little

ball-guide arrows zipping by.

The Dude twists his body around, performing a barrel-roll so

that he is now gliding along the lane face-up.

Now his point of view looks up the dresses of the passing

chorines.

The Dude smiles dreamily and does a backstroke motion so

that he is once again gliding face-down. He looks forward

and his forward momentum blows back his hair.

Coming at us, as we go through the last few pairs of legs,

are the approaching pins. We hit the pins, scattering them,

and rush on into black.

A body drops down into the blackness in slow motion--a topless

woman, squealing, her legs kicking.

As she drops out of frame, leaving blackness again, three

men are entering from the background, emerging into a pool

of light. It is the Germans, advancing ominously, wielding

oversized shears which they menacingly scissor.

The Dude, now standing in a field of black, reacts to the

advancing Germans. He turns and runs, fists pumping.

The scissoring sound of the shears turns into the whoosh of

car-bys. The field of black is punctured by headlights.

The Dude is running blearily down the middle of the Pacific

Coast Highway. Cars rush by on either side, horns blaring.

With the BLOO-WHUP of a short siren blast, a squad car with

flashing gumballs pulls up.

SQUAD CAR

The Dude sits in the back seat, his head lolling with the

motion of the car as he blearily sings the theme of Branded:

DUDE

He was innocent. Not a charge was

true. And they say he ran awaaaaaay.

CHIEF'S OFFICE

The Dude is hurled against the chief's desk, which he bounces

off of, to come to rest more or less seated in a facing chair.

His wallet is tossed onto the desk.

The chief leans forward, takes the wallet and sorts through

it with disgusted incredulity.

CHIEF

This is your only I.D.?

He is looking at the Ralph's Shopper's Club card.

DUDE

I know my rights.

CHIEF

You don't know shit, Lebowski.

DUDE

I want a fucking lawyer, man. I

want Bill Kunstler.

CHIEF

What are you, some kind of sad-assed

refugee from the fucking sixties?

DUDE

Uh-huh.

CHIEF

Mr. Treehorn tells us that he had to

eject you from his garden party,

that you were drunk and abusive.

DUDE

That guy treats women like objects,

man.

CHIEF

Mr. Treehorn draws a lot of water in

this town, Lebowski. You don't draw

shit. We got a nice quiet beach

community here, and I aim to keep it

nice and quiet. So let me make

something plain. I don't like you

sucking around bothering our citizens,

Lebowski. I don't like your jerk-

off name, I don't like your jerk-off

face, I don't like your jerk- off

behavior, and I don't like you, jerk-

off --do I make myself clear?

The Dude stares.

DUDE

I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.

The Chief hurls his steaming mug of coffee at the Dude. It

hits him in the forehead with a thud, the scalding coffee

splashing everywhere.

The Chief is already up off his chair, rounding the desk.

DUDE

--Ow! Fucking fascist!

The Chief slaps him twice.

CHIEF

Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!

He kicks the chair out from under the Dude, and then starts

kicking at him.

CHIEF

Stay out of Malibu, deadbeat! Keep

your ugly fucking goldbricking ass

out of my beach community!

CAB

The Dude, in the back seat of a taxicab that rocks and squeaks

with every bump, is gingerly touching at sore spots on his

face and scalp.

"Peaceful Easy Feeling" is on the radio.

DUDE'S POV

The back of the driver, a large black man with rasta dreds

under a knit cap.

DUDE

Jesus, man, can you change the

station?

DRIVER

Fuck you man! You don't like my

fucking music, get your own fucking

cab!

DUDE

I've had a--

DRIVER

I pull over and kick your ass out,

man!

DUDE

--had a rough night, and I hate the

fucking Eagles, man--

DRIVER

That's it! Outta this fucking cab!

THE STREET

The cab screeches over towards the curb. Another car,

oncoming, its radio blaring Metallica, speeds by.

INSIDE THE OTHER CAR

It is a red convertible. The driver, singing loudly and

badly along with the radio, her hair blowing in the wind, a

dreamy smile on her face as she speeds along, higher than a

kite, is Bunny Lebowski.

THE FOOTWELL

On the accelerator her right foot, in an open-toed bright

red high-heeled shoe, has five painted toes.

When she downshifts her left foot enters to engage the clutch.

Five more toes.

DUDE'S BUNGALOW

The Dude staggers in the open front door, one hand pressed

to a lump on his forehead, and looks around.

DUDE

Jesus.

The place is a wreck. Furniture has been overturned,

upholstery slashed, drawers dumped.

Quiet.

The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.

The Dude cringes.

Maude emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing a bathrobe.

MAUDE

Jeffrey.

DUDE

Maude?

She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.

MAUDE

Love me.

The Dude is stupefied.

DUDE

That's my robe.

THOOMP! ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:

BLACK

After a beat, a long sigh, and then a voice from the

blackness:

MAUDE

Tell me a little about yourself,

Jeffrey.

DUDE

Well, uh. . . Not much to tell.

A match is dragged across a headboard; the Dude is lighting

himself a joint. He shakes the match out to restore blackness

except for the glowing tip of the joint.

DUDE

I was, uh, one of the authors of the

Port Huron Statement.--The original

Port Huron Statement.

MAUDE

Uh-huh.

DUDE

Not the compromised second draft.

And then I, uh. . . Ever hear of the

Seattle Seven?

MAUDE

Mmnun.

Click--the Dude turns on a bedside lamp. He and Maude lie

next to each other in bed.

DUDE

And then. . . let's see, I uh--music

business briefly.

MAUDE

Oh?

DUDE

Yeah. Roadie for Metallica. Speed

of Sound Tour.

MAUDE

Uh-huh.

DUDE

Bunch of assholes. And then, you

know, little of this, little of that.

My career's, uh, slowed down a bit

lately.

MAUDE

What do you do for fun?

DUDE

Oh, you know, the usual. Bowl.

Drive around. The occasional acid

flashback.

He climbs out of bed but Maude remains in it. She wedges a

pillow into the small of her back and clasps a hand on each

kneecap. She pulls her knees in toward her chest to keep

her pelvis raised.

MAUDE

What happened to your house?

DUDE

Jackie Treehorn trashed the place.

Wanted to save the finder's fee.

MAUDE

Finder's fee?

DUDE

He thought I had your father's money,

so he got me out of the way while he

looked for it.

MAUDE

It's not my father's money, it's the

Foundation's. Why did he think you

had it? And who does?

DUDE

Larry Sellers, a high-school kid.

Real fucking brat.

He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.

MAUDE

Jeffrey--

DUDE

It's a complicated case, Maude.

Lotta ins, lotta outs. Fortunately

I've been adhering to a pretty strict,

uh, drug regimen to keep my mind,

you know, limber. I'm real fucking

close to your father's money, real

fucking close. It's just--

MAUDE

I keep telling you, it's the

Foundation's money. Father doesn't

have any.

DUDE

Huh? He's fucking loaded.

MAUDE

No no, the wealth was all Mother's.

DUDE

But your father--he runs stuff, he--

MAUDE

We did let Father run one of the

companies, briefly, but he didn't do

very well at it.

DUDE

But he's--

MAUDE

He helps administer the charities

now, and I give him a reasonable

allowance. He has no money of his

own. I know how he likes to present

himself; Father's weakness is vanity.

Hence the slut.

DUDE

Huh. Jeez. Well, so, did he--is

that yoga?

Throughout, Maude has been lying on her back with her knees

pulled in.

MAUDE

It increases the chances of

conception.

The Dude spits some White Russian.

DUDE

Increases?

MAUDE

Well yes, what did you think this

was all about? Fun and games?

DUDE

Well...no, of course not--

MAUDE

I want a child.

DUDE

Yeah, okay, but see, the Dude--

MAUDE

Look, Jeffrey, I don't want a partner.

In fact I don't want the father to

be someone I have to see socially,

or who'll have any interest in rearing

the child himself.

DUDE

Huh...

Something occurs to him.

DUDE

So...that doctor.

MAUDE

Exactly. What happened to your face?

Did Jackie Treehorn do that as well?

The Dude is staring off into space, thinking. His answer is

absent.

DUDE

No, the, uh, police chief of Malibu.

A real reactionary. . . So your

father. . . Oh man, I get it!

MAUDE

What?

The Dude is leaving the bedroom.

DUDE

Yeah, my thinking about the case,

man, it had become uptight. Yeah.

Your father--

LIVING ROOM

The Dude finishes punching a number into the phone.

PHONE VOICE

This is Walter Sobchak. I'm not in;

leave a message after the beep.

FROM THE BEDROOM:

MAUDE'S VOICE

What're you talking about?

Beep.

DUDE

Walter, if you're there, pick up the

fucking phone. Pick it up, Walter,

this is an emergency. I'm not--

WALTER

Dude?

DUDE

Walter, listen, I'm at my place, I

need you to come pick me up--

WALTER

I can't drive, Dude, it's erev

shabbas.

DUDE

Huh?

WALTER

Erev shabbas. I can't drive. I'm

not even supposed to pick up the

phone, unless it's an emergency.

DUDE

It is a fucking emergency.

WALTER

I understand. That's why I picked

up the phone.

DUDE

THEN WHY CAN'T YOU--fuck, never mind,

just call Donny then, and ask him to--

WALTER

Dude, I'm not supposed to make calls--

DUDE

WALTER, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE, WE GOTTA

GO TO PASADENA! COME PICK ME UP OR

I'M OFF THE FUCKING BOWLING TEAM!

MAUDE'S VOICE

Jeffrey?

THE DUDE

He emerges on his front stoop, pulling on a shirt. His

attention is caught by something down the street.

HIS POV

A car is parked halfway down the block. We can see the

shape of a fat man in the driver's seat.

THE DUDE

Striding purposefully down the street.

HIS POV

The fat man leans forward and we hear the sound of the car's

ignition coughing, but the engine will not turn over. More

whines and coughs; no start.

The man hurriedly fumbles in front of him. He brings up a

newspaper, which he holds before his face.

THE DUDE

As he gets to the car. He reaches through the open driver's

window and grabs the newspaper and hurls it to the ground.

He is revved with nervous energy.

DUDE

Get out of that fucking car, man!

The man nervously complies. The Dude flinches at the man's

movement as he gets out.

The man cringes, reacting to the Dude's flinch.

He is wearing a cheap blue serge suit. He is bald with a

short fringe and a mustache.

The Dude shouts to cover his fear:

DUDE

Who the fuck are you, man! Come on,

man!

MAN

Relax, man! No physical harm

intended!

DUDE

Who the fuck are you? Why've you

been following me? Come on, fuckhead!

MAN

Hey, relax man, I'm a brother shamus.

The Dude is stunned.

DUDE

Brother Shamus? Like an Irish monk?

MAN

Irish m--What the fuck are you talking

about? My name's Da Fino! I'm a

private snoop! Like you, man!

DUDE

Huh?

DA FINO

A dick, man! And let me tell you

something: I dig your work. Playing

one side against the other--in bed

with everybody--fabulous stuff, man.

DUDE

I'm not a--ah, fuck it, just stay

away from my fucking lady friend,

man.

DA FINO

Hey hey, I'm not messing with your

special lady--

DUDE

She's not my special lady, she's my

fucking lady friend. I'm just helping

her conceive, man!

DA FINO

Hey, man, I'm not--

DUDE

Who're you working for? Lebowski?

Jackie Treehorn?

DA FINO

The Gundersons.

DUDE

The? Who the fff--

DA FINO

The Gundersons. It's a wandering

daughter job. Bunny Lebowski, man.

Her real name is Fawn Gunderson.

Her parents want her back.

He is fumbling in his wallet.

DA FINO

See?

The Dude looks at the picture.

It is probably a school portrait, unmistakably Bunny, but

fresh-faced, much younger looking, with a corn-fed smile and

straight Partridge Family hair and bangs.

DUDE

Jesus fucking Christ.

DA FINO

Crazy, huh? Ran away a year ago.

He is holding out another picture.

The Gundersons told me to show her this when I found her.

The family farm.

A bleak farmhouse and silo are the only features on a flat

snow-swept landscape.

Outside of Moorhead, Minnesota. They think it'll make her

homesick.

DUDE

Boy. How ya gonna keep 'em down on

the farm once they seen Karl Hungus.

He hands back the picture.

She's been kidnapped, Da Fino. Or maybe not, but she's

definitely not around.

DA FINO

Fuck, man! That's terrible!

DUDE

Yeah, it sucks.

DA FINO

Well maybe you and me could pool our

resources--trade information--

professional courtesy--compeers, you

know--

We hear distant yapping, growing louder with the hum of an

approaching car.

DUDE

Yeah, I get it. Fuck off, Da Fino.

And stay away from my special la--

from my fucking lady friend.

The Dude steps out to meet Walter's car as it pulls up, its

passenger window open and the pomeranian leaning out and

yapping.

DENNY'S

Four people sit at a booth: Dieter, Kieffer, Franz, all in

black leather, and a young woman with long stringy blonde

hair, wearing torn and patched jeans and a ribbed sleeveless

tee-shirt, worn thin with age. She is apparently braless,

and is teutonically pale with birthmarks on her face and

arms.

Notable is her camera-side leg, which ends in a bandage-

swaddled foot. Dried rust-colored blood stains the tip of

the bandage. The four are arguing, loudly, in German.

They seem very unhappy. A waitress enters with a checkpad

and pen.

WAITRESS

You folks ready?

The German shouting stops. Dieter looks sourly up.

DIETER

I haff lingenberry pancakes.

KIEFFER

Lingenberry pancakes.

FRANZ

Sree picks in blanket.

The woman speaks to Dieter in German. He nods.

DIETER

Lingenberry pancakes.

WALTER'S CAR

Walter's eyes are on the road as he listens, driving, to the

Dude, whose speech is occasionally punctuated by yaps from

the back seat.

DUDE

I mean we totally fucked it up, man.

We fucked up his pay-off. And got

the kidnappers all pissed off, and

the big Lebowski yelled at me a lot,

but he didn't do anything. Huh?

WALTER

Well it's, sometimes the cathartic,

uh.

DUDE

I'm saying if he knows I'm a fuck-

up, then why does he still leave me

in charge of getting back his wife?

Because he fucking doesn't want her

back, man! He's had enough! He no

longer digs her! It's all a show!

But then, why didn't he give a shit

about his million bucks? I mean, he

knew we didn't hand off his briefcase,

but he never asked for it back.

WALTER

What's your point, Dude?

DUDE

His million bucks was never in it,

man! There was no money in that

briefcase! He was hoping they'd

kill her! You throw out a ringer

for a ringer!

WALTER

Yeah?

DUDE

Shit yeah!

WALTER

Okay, but how does all this add up

to an emergency?

DUDE

Huh?

WALTER

I'm saying, I see what you're getting

at, Dude, he kept the money, but my

point is, here we are, it's shabbas,

the sabbath, which I'm allowed to

break only if it's a matter of life

and death--

DUDE

Walter, come off it. You're not

even fucking Jewish, you're--

WALTER

What the fuck are you talking about?

DUDE

You're fucking Polish Catholic--

WALTER

What the fuck are you talking about?

I converted when I married Cynthia!

Come on, Dude!

DUDE

Yeah, and you were--

WALTER

You know this!

DUDE

And you were divorced five fucking

years ago.

WALTER

Yeah? What do you think happens

when you get divorced? You turn in

your library card? Get a new driver's

license? Stop being Jewish?

DUDE

This driveway.

AS HE TURNS:

WALTER

I'm as Jewish as fucking Tevye

DUDE

It's just part of your whole sick

Cynthia thing. Taking care of her

fucking dog. Going to her fucking

synagogue. You're living in the

fucking past.

WALTER

Three thousand years of beautiful

tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--

YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I LIVE IN THE

PAST! I--Jesus. What the hell

happened?

He is looking off as the car slows. The Dude looks where

Walter is looking.

THE LEBOWSKI MANSION

Walter's car pulls up the drive into the foreground and he

and the Dude get out.

Both are gaping off at the front lawn.

WALTER

Jesus Christ.

THEIR POV

Tire treads lead across the manicured front lawn to where a

little red sports car rests with its hood crumpled into a

palm trunk.

TRACKING DOWN THE GREAT HALLWAY

Through the French doors at its far end we can see Bunny,

naked, briefly bouncing on the diving board before splashing

into the illuminated pool outside. Heavy metal music filters

in from a boom box by the pool.

Brandt, approaching, stoops and straightens, stoops and

straightens, picking up the discarded clothes that run the

length of the hall.

BRANDT

He can't see you, Dude.

We pull the Dude and Walter as they approach the doors to

the great study. Walter's dog follows, stiffly waving its

tail.

DUDE

Where'd she been?

BRANDT

Visiting friends of hers in Palm

Springs. Just picked up and left,

never bothered to tell us.

DUDE

But I guess she told Dieter.

WALTER

Jesus, Dude! He never even kidnapped

her.

BRANDT

Who's this gentleman, Dude?

WALTER

Who'm I? I'm a fucking VETERAN!

BRANDT

You shouldn't go in there, Dude!

He's very angry!

BANG--the Dude and Walter push through the double doors into--

THE GREAT ROOM

The big Lebowski turns at the sound of the door. His

wheelchair hums as he spins it around.

LEBOWSKI

(bitterly)

Well, she's back. No thanks to you.

DUDE

Where's the money, Lebowski?

WALTER

A MILLION BUCKS FROM FUCKING NEEDY

LITTLE URBAN ACHIEVERS! YOU ARE

SCUM, MAN!

The dog yaps.

LEBOWSKI

Who the hell is he?

WALTER

I'll tell you who I am! I'm the guy

who's gonna KICK YOUR PHONY

GOLDBRICKING ASS!

DUDE

We know the briefcase was empty,

man. We know you kept the million

bucks yourself.

LEBOWSKI

Well, you have your story, I have

mine. I say I entrusted the money

to you, and you stole it.

WALTER

AS IF WE WOULD EVER DREAM OF TAKING

YOUR BULLSHIT MONEY!

DUDE

You thought Bunny'd been kidnapped

and you could use it as a pretext to

make some money disappear. All you

needed was a sap to pin it on, and

you'd just met me. You thought,

hey, a deadbeat, a loser, someone

the square community won't give a

shit about.

LEBOWSKI

Well? Aren't you?

DUDE

Well. . . yeah.

LEBOWSKI

All right, get out. Both of you.

WALTER

Look at that fucking phony, Dude!

Pretending to be a fucking

millionaire!

LEBOWSKI

I said out. Now.

WALTER

Let me tell you something else.

I've seen a lot of spinals, Dude,

and this guy is a fake. A fucking

goldbricker.

He is crossing to Lebowski.

WALTER

This guy fucking walks. I've never

been more certain of anything in my

life!

LEBOWSKI

Stay away from me, mister!

Walter reaches around from behind and hoists the big Lebowski

out of the wheelchair by his armpits.

WALTER

Walk, you fucking phony!

The big Lebowski waggles helplessly, his rubbery feet grazing

the floor like a Raggedy Ann's. The pomeranian gaily leaps

and yaps.

LEBOWSKI

Put me down, you son of a bitch!

DUDE

Walter!

WALTER

It's all over, man! We call your

fucking bluff!

DUDE

WALTER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! HE'S

CRIPPLED! PUT HIM DOWN!

WALTER

Sure, I'll put him down, Dude. RAUSS!

ACHTUNG, BABY!!

He shoves the big Lebowski forward and he crumples to the

floor, weeping.

WALTER

Oh, shit.

LEBOWSKI

(sobbing)

You're bullies! Cowards, both of

you!

Walter is abashed. The Big Lebowski flails about on the

floor.

WALTER

Oh, shit.

DUDE

He can't walk, Walter!

WALTER

Yeah, I can see that, Dude.

LEBOWSKI

You monsters!

DUDE

Help me put him back in his chair.

Walter moves to comply.

WALTER

Shit, sorry man.

THROUGH HIS TEARS:

LEBOWSKI

Stay away from me! You bullies!

You and these women! You won't leave

a man his fucking balls!

DUDE

Walter, you fuck!

WALTER

Shit, Dude, I didn't know. I

wouldn't've done it if I knew he was

a fucking crybaby.

DUDE

We're sorry, man. We're really sorry.

The Dude has picked up the Big Lebowski's plaid lap warmer

and is frantically tucking it back in around his waist and

batting the dog away.

DUDE

There ya go. Sorry man.

Walter, puzzled, hands on hips, stands over the big Lebowski.

WALTER

Shit. He didn't look like a spinal.

TEN PINS

Scattered at the cut.

DUDE AND WALTER

Each with a beer at the scoring table.

WALTER

Sure you'll see some tank battles.

But fighting in desert is very

different from fighting in canopy

jungle.

DUDE

Uh-huh.

WALTER

I mean 'Nam was a foot soldier's war

whereas, uh, this thing should be a

fucking cakewalk. I mean I had an

M16, Jacko, not an Abrams fucking

tank. Just me and Charlie, man,

eyeball to eyeball.

DUDE

Yeah.

WALTER

That's fuckin' combat. The man in

the black pyjamas, Dude. Worthy

fuckin' adversary.

DONNY

Who's in pyjamas, Walter?

WALTER

Shut the fuck up, Donny. Not a bunch

of fig-eaters with towels on their

heads tryin' to find reverse on a

Soviet tank. This is not a worthy--

VOICE

HEY!

The Dude and Walter look.

Quintana is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is

restrained by O'Brien.

QUINTANA

What's this "day of rest" shit, man?!

Walter looks at him innocently.

QUINTANA

What is this bullshit, man? I don't

fucking care! It don't matter to

Jesus! But you're not fooling me!

You might fool the fucks in the league

office, but you don't fool Jesus!

It's bush league psych-out stuff!

Laughable, man! I would've fucked

you in the ass Saturday, I'll fuck

you in the ass next Wednesday instead!

QUINTANA

He makes hip-grinding coital motions as O'Brien leads him

away.

QUINTANA

You got a date Wednesday, man!

Walter, his head cocked, and the Dude, peeking over his

shades, watch him go.

WALTER

He's cracking.

BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT

Donny, Walter and the Dude emerge from the alley, each holding

his leatherette ball satchel.

WALTER

A tree of life, Dude. To all who

cling to it.

They react to the droning synthesizer-based technopop coming

from a boom box.

REVERSE

Dieter, Kieffer and Franz, in shiny black leather, stand in

a line facing them in the all-but-deserted lot. Behind them

orange flames lick gently at the Dude's car, which has been

put to the torch. The orange flames glow on the men's

creaking leather. Next to the car are three motorcycles,

parked in a neat row. The Dude looks sadly at the burning

car.

DUDE

They finally did it. They killed my

fucking car.

DIETER

Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

KIEFFER

Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.

FRANZ

Ja, it seems you forgot our little

deal, Lebowski.

DUDE

You don't have the fucking girl,

dipshits. We know you never did.

So you've got nothin' on my Johnson.

DUDE

The men in black, stunned, confer amongst themselves in

German. Under his breath:

DONNY

Are these the Nazis, Walter?

Walter answers, also sotto voce, his eyes still on the three

men:

WALTER

They're nihilists, Donny, nothing to

be afraid of.

The Germans stop conferring.

DIETER

Vee don't care. Vee still vant zat

money or vee fuck you up.

KIEFFER

Ja, vee still vant ze money. Vee

sreaten you.

He pulls an uzi from under his coat. It glints in the

firelight.

WALTER

Fuck you. Fuck the three of you.

DUDE

Hey, cool it Walter.

Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:

WALTER

There's no ransom if you don't have

a fucking hostage. That's what ransom

is. Those are the fucking rules.

DIETER

Zere ARE no ROOLZ!

WALTER

NO RULES! YOU CABBAGE-EATING SONS-

OF- BITCHES--

KIEFFER

His girlfriend gafe up her toe! She

sought we'd be getting million

dollars! Iss not fair!

WALTER

Fair! WHO'S THE FUCKING NIHILIST

HERE! WHAT ARE YOU, A BUNCH OF

FUCKING CRYBABIES?!

DUDE

Hey, cool it Walter. Listen, pal,

there never was any money. The big

Lebowski gave me an empty briefcase,

man, so take it up with him.

WALTER

AND I'D LIKE MY UNDIES BACK!

The Germans confer again, in German.

Donny is visibly frightened.

DONNY

Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?

WALTER 'S TONE IS GENTLE:

WALTER

They won't hurt us, Donny. These

men are cowards.

THE CONFERENCE ENDS:

DIETER

Okay. Vee take ze money you haf on

you und vee call it eefen.

WALTER

Fuck you.

The Dude is digging into his pocket.

DUDE

Come on, Walter, we're ending this

thing cheap.

Walter's eyes, burning with hatred, are locked on Dieter's.

WALTER

What's mine is mine.

DUDE

Come on, Walter!.

Louder, to the Germans, as he looks in his wallet:

DUDE

Four dollars here!

He inspects the change in his palm.

 
DUDE

Almost five!

DONNY

(tremulously)

I got eighteen dollars, Dude.

WALTER

(grimly)

What's mine is mine.

With a ring of steel, Dieter produces a glinting saber.

DIETER

VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN! VEE TAKE YOUR

MONEY!

WALTER

(coolly)

Come and get it.

DIETER

VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!

WALTER

Come and get it. Fucking nihilist.

DIETER

I FUCK YOU! I FUCK YOU!

WALTER

Show me what you got. Nihilist.

Dipshit with a nine-toed woman.

In a rage, Dieter charges.

DIETER

I FUCK YOU! I FUCK YOU!

WALTER

hurls his leather satchel.

KIEFFER

Watching Dieter's charge, is caught off-guard. The bowling

ball thuds into his chest and lifts him off his feet.

He falls back, his uzi clattering away.

WALTER

twists away as Dieter reaches him; grabs Dieter's head in

both hands; draws Dieter's head up to his mouth, which closes

on Dieter's ear.

DUDE

He rushes Franz but draws up short as Franz sends out karate

kicks, his leather pants squeaking and popping. Franz gives

a loud cry with each kick; the Dude leans back, throwing his

arms up, evading the kicks.

WALTER

His jaw is still clamped on Dieter's ear. Dieter draws his

saber against Walter's side, drawing blood.

Walter doesn't react to the wound. Growling as Dieter

screams, he worries his ear, waggling his head with his jaws

clamped.

THE SABER

Dieter drops it.

DUDE

Awkwardly circling, evading Franz's kicks.

WALTER

still worrying the ear. With a tearing sound his head and

Dieter's separate.

DIETER, EARLESS, SCREAMS:

DIETER

I FUCK YOU! YOU CANNOT HURT ME! I

BELIEF IN NUSSING!

Walter spits his ear into his face.

DUDE

The Dude and Franz, both now panting heavily, have yet to

establish body contact. Franz continues to kick.

FRANZ

VEAKLING!

WALTER

draws back his fist.

DIETER

NUSSING!

WALTER

ANTI-SEMITE!

Bam!--A powerhouse blow to the middle of his face drops Dieter

for the count.

DUDE AND FRANZ

With a piercing shriek Franz finally summons the nerve to

charge the Dude, hands raised to deliver karate blows.

As he reaches the Dude--WHHAP--the boom box swings into

frame to smash him in the face. Its volume shoots up.

Walter bashes him a few more times over the head. The music

screeches to static, then quiet. Laid out now, Franz too is

quiet.

All quiet.

Walter, panting, looks around.

WALTER

We've got a man down, Dude.

With a hand pressed to his bleeding side he trots over to

Donny, who lies gasping on the ground.

The Dude, also panting, rises and trots over.

DUDE

Hy God! They shot him, Walter!

WALTER

No Dude.

DUDE

They shot Donny!

Donny gasps for air. His eyes, wide, go from the Dude to

Walter. One hand still clutches his eighteen dollars.

WALTER

There weren't any shots.

DUDE

Then what's...

WALTER

It's a heart attack.

DUDE

Wha.

WALTER

Call the medics, Dude.

DUDE

Wha. . . Donny--

WALTER

Hurry Dude. I'd go but I'm pumping

blood. Might pass out.

The Dude runs into the lanes. Walter lays a reassuring hand

on Donny's shoulder.

WALTER

Rest easy, good buddy, you're doing

fine. We got help choppering in.

FADE OUT

HOLD IN BLACK

THE DUDE AND WALTER

---

They sit side by side, forearms on knees, in a nondescript

waiting area. Walter bounces the fingertips of one hand off

those of the other. They sit. They wait.

A tall thin man in a conservative black suit enters. He

eyes the Dude's bowling attire and sunglasses and Walter's

army surplus, but doesn't make an issue of it.

MAN

Hello, gentlemen. You are the

bereaved?

DUDE

Yeah man.

MAN

Francis Donnelly. Pleased to meet

you.

DUDE

Jeffrey Lebowski.

WALTER

Walter Sobchak.

DUDE

The Dude, actually. Is what, uh.

DONNELLY

Excuse me?

DUDE

Nothing.

DONNELLY

Yes. I understand you're taking

away the remains.

WALTER

Yeah.

DONNELLY

We have the urn.

He nods through a door. Another man in a black suit enters

to carefully deposit a large silver urn on the desktop.

DONNELLY

And I assume this is credit card?

He is vaguely handing a large leather folder across the desk

to whomever wants to take it.

WALTER

Yeah.

He takes it, opens it, puts on reading glasses that sit

halfway down his nose, and inspects the bill with his head

pulled back for focus and cocked for concentration. Silence.

The Dude smiles at Donnelly. Donnelly gives back a

mortician's smile. At length Walter holds the bill towards

Donnelly, pointing.

WALTER

What's this?

DONNELLY

That is for the urn.

WALTER

Don't need it. We're scattering the

ashes.

DONNELLY

Yes, so we were informed. However,

we must of course transmit the remains

to you in a receptacle.

WALTER

This is a hundred and eighty dollars.

DONNELLY

Yes sir. It is our most modestly

priced receptacle.

DUDE

Well can we--

WALTER

A hundred and eighty dollars?!

DONNELLY

They range up to three thousand.

WALTER

Yeah, but we're--

DUDE

Can we just rent it from you?

DONNELLY

Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental

house.

WALTER

We're scattering the fucking ashes!

DUDE

Walter--

WALTER

JUST BECAUSE WE'RE BEREAVED DOESN'T

MEAN WE'RE SAPS!

DONNELLY

Sir, please lower your voice--

DUDE

Hey man, don't you have something

else you could put it in?

DONNELLY

That is our most modestly priced

receptacle.

WALTER

GODDAMNIT! IS THERE A RALPH'S AROUND

HERE?!

POINT DUME -- DAY

It is a high, wind-swept bluff. Walter and the Dude walk

towards the lip of the bluff. Parked in the background is

one lonely car, Walter's.

Walter is carrying a bright red coffee can with a blue plastic

lid. When they reach the edge the two men stand awkwardly

for a beat. Finally:

WALTER

I'll say a few words.

The Dude clasps his hands in front of him. Walter clears

his throat.

WALTER

Donny was a good bowler, and a good

man. He was. . . He was one of us.

He was a man who loved the outdoors,

and bowling, and as a surfer explored

the beaches of southern California

from Redondo to Calabassos. And he

was an avid bowler. And a good

friend. He died--he died as so many

of his generation, before his time.

In your wisdom you took him, Lord.

As you took so many bright flowering

young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc

and Hill 364. These young men gave

their lives. And Donny too. Donny

who. . . who loved bowling.

Walter clears his throat.

WALTER

And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos,

in accordance with what we think

your dying wishes might well have

been, we commit your mortal remains

to the bosom of.

Walter is peeling the plastic lid off the coffee can.

WALTER

the Pacific Ocean, which you loved

so well.

AS HE SHAKES OUT THE ASHES:

WALTER

Goodnight, sweet prince.

The wind has blown all of the ashes into the Dude, standing

just to the side of and behind Walter. The Dude stands,

frozen. Finished eulogizing, Walter looks back.

WALTER

Shit, I'm sorry Dude.

He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.

WALTER

Goddamn wind.

Heretofore motionless, the Dude finally explodes, slapping

Walter's hands away.

DUDE

Goddamnit Walter! You fucking

asshole!

WALTER

Dude! Dude, I'm sorry!

The Dude is near tears.

DUDE

You make everything a fucking

travesty!

WALTER

Dude, I'm--it was an accident!

The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.

DUDE

What about that shit about Vietnam!

WALTER

Dude, I'm sorry--

DUDE

What the fuck does Vietnam have to

do with anything! What the fuck

were you talking about?!

Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost

lost.

WALTER

Shit Dude, I'm sorry--

DUDE

You're a fuck, Walter!

He gives Walter a weaker shove. Walter seems dazed, then

wraps his arms around the Dude.

WALTER

Awww, fuck it Dude. Let's go bowling.

THE LANES THE DUDE AND WALTER BOWLING

We watch each of them glide across the floor, release, follow

through--gracefully. We have never seen them bowl before.

They are quite good. Each wears a black armband on his

bowling shirt.

BAR AREA

The Dude walks up to the bar.

DUDE

Two oat sodas, Gary.

GARY

Right. Good luck tomorrow.

DUDE

Thanks, man.

GARY

Sorry to hear about Donny.

DUDE

Yeah. Well, you know, sometimes you

eat the bear, and, uh.

"Tumbling Tumbleweeds" has come up on the jukebox, and The

Stranger ambles up to the bar.

THE STRANGER

Howdy do, Dude.

DUDE

Oh, hey man, how are ya? I wondered

if I'd see you again.

THE STRANGER

Wouldn't miss the semis. How things

been goin'?

DUDE

Ahh, you know. Strikes and gutters,

ups and downs.

The Stranger's eyes crinkle merrily.

THE STRANGER

Sure, I gotcha.

The bartender has put two gleaming beers on the counter.

DUDE

Thanks, Gary...Take care, man, I

gotta get back.

THE STRANGER

Sure. Take it easy, Dude--I know

that you will.

THE DUDE, LEAVING, NODS:

DUDE

Yeah man. Well, you know, the Dude

abides.

Gazing after him, The Stranger drawls, savoring the words:

THE STRANGER

The Dude abides.

He gives his head a shake of appreciation, then looks into

the camera.

THE STRANGER

I don't know about you, but I take

comfort in that. It's good knowin'

he's out there, the Dude, takin' her

easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I

sure hope he makes The finals. Welp,

that about does her, wraps her all

up. Things seem to've worked out

pretty good for the Dude'n Walter,

and it was a purt good story, dontcha

think? Made me laugh to beat the

band. Parts, anyway. Course--I

didn't like seein' Donny go. But

then, happen to know that there's a

little Lebowski on the way. I guess

that's the way the whole durned human

comedy keeps perpetuatin' it-self,

down through the generations, westward

the wagons, across the sands a time

until-- aw, look at me, I'm ramblin'

again. Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed

yourselves.

He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip as we begin to pull

back.

THE STRANGER

Catch ya further on down the trail.

As we pull away The Stranger swivels in to the bar. As his

voice fades:

THE STRANGER

...Say friend, ya got any more a

that good sarsaparilla?...

 
-why'd you tell him that? he gonna spit in it now?

-no, i was telling him that so he makes it good. don't spit in that cop's burger

-roger, holding the spit

this suit is NOT black

it just goes to show that not everyone can't not die in a freak gasoline fight accident.

-i eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast

-you eat pieces of shit for breakfast?
 
15 bucks little man, Put that shit in my hand, and if you don't the money show thenyou owe me owe me owe!! My Jungle looove!
 
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