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Big Lebowski, The (1998)

by Ethan Coen, Joel Coen

More info about this movie on IMDb.com


FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY


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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