Big Lebowski, The


THE BIG LEBOWSKI


         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

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.

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?...



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