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:

                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.

                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.


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.

                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.

                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.


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.

                ...and even if he's a lazy man, and
                the Dude was certainly that--quite
                possibly the laziest in Los Angeles

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.

                ...which would place him high in the
                runnin' for laziest worldwide--but
                sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes
                there's a man.


Long shot of the glowing Ralph's.  There are only two or
three cars parked in the huge lot.

                Wal, I lost m'train of thought here.  
                But--aw hell, I done innerduced him

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.

                It's the LeBaron.


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.


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

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

The Dude blows bubbles.

                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.

                Where's the money, Lebowski!

His head is plunged back into the toilet.

                Where's the money, Lebowski!

The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping.


                It's uh, it's down there somewhere.  
                Lemme take another look.

His head is plunged back in.

                Don't fuck with us.  If your wife
                owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that
                means you owe money to Jackie

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

                Oh, man.  Don't do--

                                BLOND MAN
                You see what happens?  You see what
                happens, Lebowski?

The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.

                Look, nobody calls me Lebowski.  You
                got the wrong guy.  I'm the Dude,

                                BLOND MAN
                Your name is Lebowski.  Your wife is

                Bunny?  Look, moron.

He holds up his hands.

                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

                                BLOND MAN
                The fuck is this?

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

                Obviously you're not a golfer.

The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.

                                BLOND MAN

The Chinese man is zipping his fly.


                                BLOND MAN
                Wasn't this guy supposed to be a


They both look around.


                                BLOND MAN
                What do you think?

                He looks like a fuckin' loser.

The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose with one finger
and peeks over them.

                Hey.  At least I'm housebroken.

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

                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:


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.

                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.

                This was a valued rug.

He elaborately clears his throat.

                This was, uh--

                Yeah man, it really tied the room

                This was a valued, uh.

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

                What tied the room together, Dude?

                Were you listening to the story,


                Were you listening to the Dude's

                I was bowling--

                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--

                What's your point, Walter?

                There's no fucking reason--here's my
                point, Dude--there's no fucking reason--

                Yeah Walter, what's your point?


                What's the point of--we all know who
                was at fault, so what the fuck are
                you talking about?

                Huh?  No!  What the fuck are you
                talking--I'm not--we're talking about
                unchecked aggression here--

                What the fuck is he talking about?

                My rug.

                Forget it, Donny.  You're out of
                your element.

                This Chinaman who peed on my rug, I
                can't go give him a bill so what the
                fuck are you talking about?

                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.

                Walter, this is not a guy who built
                the rail- roads, here, this is a guy
                who peed on my--

                What the fuck are you--

                Walter, he peed on my rug--

                He peed on the Dude's rug--

                YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT!  This
                Chinaman is not the issue, Dude.

                So who--

                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?

                No, but--

                Am I wrong!

                Yeah, but--

                Okay. That, uh.

He elaborately clears his throat.

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

                Fuckin' A.

                And this guy peed on it.

                Donny!  Please!

                Yeah, I could find this Lebowski guy--

                His name is Lebowski?  That's your
                name, 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.

                Thaaat's right Dude; they pee on
                your fucking Rug.


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.

                Yes, uh, very impressive.

                                YOUNG MAN
                Please, feel free to inspect them.

                I'm not really, uh.

                                YOUNG MAN
                Please!  Please!


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.


                                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--

                Hey, is this him with Nancy?

                                YOUNG MAN
                That is indeed Mr. Lebowski with the
                first lady, yes, taken when--

                Lebowski on the right?

                                YOUNG MAN
                Of course, Mr. Lebowski on the right,
                Mrs.  Reagan on the left, taken when--

                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.

                Far out.

                                YOUNG MAN
                And in fact he met privately with
                the President, though unfortunately
                there wasn't time for a photo

                Nancy's pretty good.

                                YOUNG MAN
                Wonderful woman.  We were very--

                Are these.

                                YOUNG MAN
                These are Mr. Lebowski's children,
                so to speak--

                Different mothers, huh?

                                YOUNG MAN
                No, they--

                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--

                I see.

                                YOUNG MAN
                --without  the means  for higher  
                education, so Mr. Lebowski  has
                committed  to sending  all of them
                to college.

                Jeez.  Think he's got room for one

                                YOUNG MAN
                One--oh!  Heh-heh.  You never went
                to college?

                Well, yeah I did, but I spent most
                of my time occupying various, um,
                administration buildings--

                                YOUNG MAN

                --smoking thai-stick, breaking into
                the ROTC--

                                YOUNG MAN
                Yes, heh--

                --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.

                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.

                Well sir, it's this rug I have, really
                tied the room together-

                You told Brandt on the phone, he
                told me.  So where do I fit in?

                Well they were looking for you, these
                two guys, they were trying to--

                I'll say it again, all right?  You
                told Brandt.  He told me.  I know
                what happened. Yes?  Yes?

                So you know they were trying to piss
                on your rug--

                Did I urinate on your rug?

                You mean, did you personally come
                and pee on my--

                Hello!  Do you speak English?  Parla
                usted Inglese?  I'll say it again.  
                Did I urinate on your rug?

                Well no, like I said, Woo peed on
                the rug--

                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--

                Come on, man, I'm not trying to scam
                anybody here, I'm just--

                You're just looking for a handout
                like every other--are you employed,
                Mr. Lebowski?

                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--

                Are you employed, sir?


                You don't go out and make a living
                dressed like that in the middle of a

                Is this a--what day is this?

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

                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--

                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.

                Ah fuck it.

                Sure!  Fuck it!  That's your answer!  
                Tattoo it on your forehead!  Your
                answer to everything!

The Dude is heading for the door.

                Your "revolution" is over, Mr.  
                Lebowski!  Condolences!  The bums

As the Dude opens the door.

                ...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

                --in a high coffered hallway.  Brandt
                is approaching.

                How was your meeting, Mr. Lebowski?

                Okay.  The old man told me to take
                any rug in the house.


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.

                Manolo will load it into your car
                for you, uh, Dude.

                It's the LeBaron.


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

                Well, enjoy, and perhaps we'll see
                you again some time, Dude.

                Yeah sure, if I'm ever in the
                neighborhood, need to use the john.


Arcing around the woman's foot as she finishes painting the
nails emerald green.




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

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


She waggles her foot and giggles.

                                YOUNG WOMAN
                G'ahead.  Blow.

The Dude tentatively grabs hold of her extended foot.

                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.

                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.


The young woman smiles.

                                YOUNG WOMAN
                You're not blowing.

Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.

                Our guest has to be getting along,
                Mrs.  Lebowski.

The Dude grudgingly allows himself to be led away, still
looking at the young woman.

                You're Bunny?

                I'll suck your cock for a thousand

Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:

                Ha-ha-ha-ha!  Wonderful woman.  Very
                free-spirited.  We're all very fond
                of her.

                Brandt can't watch though.  Or he
                has to pay a hundred.

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

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


                I'm just gonna find a cash machine.


Scattered by a strike.


Donny calls out from the bench:

                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.

                Your maples, Carl.

Walter, just arriving, is carrying a leatherette satchel in
one hand and a large plastic carrier in the other.

                Way to go, Dude.  If you will it, it
                is no dream.

                You're fucking twenty minutes late.  
                What the fuck is that?

                Theodore Herzel.


                State of Israel.  If you will it,
                Dude, it is no--

                What the fuck're you talking about?  
                The carrier.  What's in the fucking

                Huh?  Oh--Cynthia's Pomeranian.  
                Can't leave him home alone or he
                eats the furniture.

                What the fuck are you--

                I'm saying, Cynthia's Pomeranian.  
                I'm looking after it while Cynthia
                and Marty Ackerman are in Hawaii.

                You brought a fucking Pomeranian

                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.

                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?

                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.

                Hey man--

                Fucking dog has papers, Dude.--Over
                the line!

Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.

                Smokey Huh?

                Over the line, Smokey!  I'm sorry.  
                That's a foul.

                Bullshit.  Eight, Dude.

                Excuse me!  Mark it zero.  Next frame.

                Bullshit. Walter!

                This is not Nam.  This is bowling.  
                There are rules.

                Come on Walter, it's just--it's
                Smokey.  So his toe slipped over a
                little, it's just a game.

                This is a league game.  This
                determines who enters the next round-
                robin, am I wrong?

                Yeah, but--

                Am I wrong!?

                Yeah, but I wasn't over.  Gimme the
                marker, Dude,  I'm marking it an

Walter takes out a gun.

                Smokey my friend, you're entering a
                world of pain.

                Hey Walter--

                Mark that frame an eight, you're
                entering a world of pain.

                I'm not--

                A world of pain.

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

                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.

                ABOUT THE RULES?  MARK IT ZERO!

The Pomeranian is excitedly yapping at Walter's elbow, making
high body-twisting tail-wagging leaps.

                Walter, they're calling the cops,
                put the piece away.

                MARK IT ZERO!


                MARK IT ZERO!!

                All right!  There it is!  It's fucking

He points frantically at the score projected above the lane.

                You happy, you crazy fuck?

                This is a league game, Smokey!


Walter and the Dude walk to the Dude's car.  The Pomeranian
trots happily behind Walter who totes the empty carrier.

                Walter, you can't do that.  These
                guys're like me, they're pacificists.  
                Smokey was a conscientious objector.

                You know Dude, I myself dabbled with
                pacifism at one point.  Not in Nam,
                of course--

                And you know Smokey has emotional

                You mean--beyond pacifism?

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

As the two men get into the car:

                Huh.  I did not know that.  Well,
                it's water under the bridge.  And we
                do enter the next round-robin, am I

                No, you're not wrong--

                Am I wrong!

                You're not wrong, Walter, you're
                just an asshole.

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

                Okay then.  We play Quintana and
                O'Brien next week.  They'll be

                Just, just take it easy, 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

                Well, just take 't easy, man.

                I'm perfectly calm, Dude.

                Yeah?  Wavin' a gun around?!

                Calmer than you are.

-his irritates the Dude further.

                Just take it easy, man!

Walter is still smug.

                Calmer than you are.


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.

                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--


                --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


                                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.


It swings open to reveal a short, hairy, muscular but balding
middle-aged man in a black T-shirt and black cut-off jeans.

                Hiya 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.

                Sure Allan, I'll be there.

                Dude, uh, tomorrow is already the

                Yeah, yeah I know. Okay.

                Just, uh, just slip the rent under
                my door.

                Yeah, okay.


The  voice continues on the machine.

                --serious infraction, and examine
                your standing.  Thank you.  Beep.

                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.


We are pushing Brandt down the high-ceilinged hallway.  
Distantly, we hear a dolorous soprano.  Brandt talks back


                We've had some terrible news.  Mr.
                Lebowski is in seclusion in the West


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.


                Mr. Lebowski.

Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.

                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?



                I don't know, sir.

                Is it. . . is it, being prepared to
                do the right thing?  Whatever the
                price?  Isn't that what makes a man?

                Sure.  That and a pair of testicles.

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

                You're joking.  But perhaps you're

The Dude thumps at his chest pocket.

                Mind if I smoke a jay?


He turns back around and the firelight shows teartracks on
his cheeks.

                'Scuse me?

                Bunny Lebowski. . . She is the light
                of my life.  Are you surprised at my
                tears, sir?

                Fuckin' A.

                Strong men also cry. . . Strong men
                also cry.

He clears his throat.

                I received this fax this morning.

Brandt hastily pulls a flimsy sheet from his clipboard and
hands it to the Dude.

                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.




Lebowski looks soulfully at the Dude.

                Brandt will fill you in on the

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


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

                Mr. Lebowski is prepared to make a
                generous offer to you to act as
                courier once we get instructions for
                the money.

                Why me, man?

                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.

                So he thinks it's the carpet-pissers,

                Well Dude, we just don't know.


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


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.


On the Dude, sitting next to Walter in the molded plastic
chairs. The Dude is staring off towards the bowler.

                Fucking Quintana--that creep can
                roll, man--


Displaying great slow-motion form as the Dude and Walter's
conversation continues over.

                Yeah, but he's a fucking pervert,


                The man is a sex offender.  With a
                record.  Spent six months in Chino
                for exposing himself to an eight-


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.


                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.

                What's a pederast, Walter?

                Shut the fuck up, Donny.


scattered by a strike.


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".


They have been joined by Donny.

                Anyway.  How much they offer you?

                Twenty grand.  And of course I still
                keep the rug.

                Just for making the hand-off?


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

                ...They  gave  Dude  a  beeper,  so  
                whenever these guys call--

                What if it's during a game?

                I told him if it was during league

Donny has been watching Quintana.

                If what's during league play?

                Life does not stop and start at your
                convenience, you miserable piece of

                What's wrong with Walter, Dude?

                I figure it's easy money, it's all
                pretty harmless.  I mean she probably
                kidnapped herself.


                What do you mean, 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--


                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--

                I am the Walrus.

                That fucking bitch!


                I am the Walrus.

                Shut the fuck up, Donny!  V.I. Lenin!  
                Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!

                What the fuck is he talking about?

                That's fucking exactly what happened,
                Dude!  That makes me fucking SICK!

                Yeah, well, what do you care, Walter?

                Yeah Dude, why is Walter so pissed

                Those rich fucks!  This whole fucking
                thing-- I did not watch my buddies
                die face down in the muck so that
                this fucking strumpet--

                I don't see any connection to Vietnam,

                Well, there isn't a literal
                connection, Dude.

                Walter, face it, there isn't any
                connection.  It's your roll.

                Have it your way.  The point is--

                It's your roll--

                The fucking point is--

                It's your roll.

                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.

                I see you rolled your way into the
                semis.  Deos mio, man.  Seamus and
                me, we're gonna fuck you up.

                Yeah well, that's just, ya know,
                like, your opinion, man.

Quintana looks at Walter.

                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


                You said it, man.  Nobody fucks with
                the Jesus.

Jesus walks away.  Walter nods sadly.

                Eight-year-olds, Dude.


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

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

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.


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.

                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.


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.


We  push  Brandt  down  the  familiar  marble  hallway.  
Again  there is a  distant  aria.    Brandt  throws  out a  
wrist to  look at  his watch.

                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

                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.

                Here's the money, and the phone.  
                Please, Dude, follow whatever
                instructions they give.


                Her life is in your hands.

                Oh, man, don't say that..

                Mr. Lebowski asked me to repeat that:  
                Her life is in your hands.


                Her life is in your hands, Dude.  
                And report back to us as soon as
                it's done.


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.

                Take the ringer.  I'll drive.

The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.

                The what?

                The ringer!  The ringer, Dude!  Have
                they called yet?

The Dude opens the briefcase and paws bemusedly through it
as the car starts rolling.

                What the hell is this?

                My dirty undies.  Laundry, Dude.  
                The whites.


He closes the briefcase.

                Walter, I'm sure there's a reason
                you brought your dirty undies--

                Thaaaat's right, Dude.  The weight.  
                The ringer can't look empty.

                Walter--what the fuck are you

                Well you're right, Dude, I got to
                thinking.  I got to thinking why
                should we settle for a measly fucking
                twenty grand--

                We?  What the fuck we?  You said you
                just wanted to come along--

                My point, Dude, is why should we
                settle for twenty grand when we can
                keep the entire million.  Am I wrong?

                Yes you're wrong.  This isn't a
                fucking game, Walter--

                It is a fucking game.  You said so
                yourself, Dude--she kidnapped herself--

                                DUDE '
                Yeah, but--

The phone chirps.  Dude grabs it.

                Dude here.

                        (German accent)
                Who is this?

                Dude the Bagman.  Where do you want
                us to go?


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--

                Shut the fuck up.


                Okay, listen--

Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:

                Dude, are you fucking this up?

                Who is that?

                The driver man, I told you--

Click.  Dial tone.

                Oh shit.  Walter.

                What the fuck is going on there?

                They hung up, Walter!  You fucked it
                up!  You fucked it up!  Her life was
                in our hands!

                Easy, Dude.

                We're screwed now!  We don't get
                shit and they're gonna kill her!  
                We're fucked, Walter!

                Dude, nothing is fucked.  Come on.  
                You're being very unDude.  They'll
                call back.  Look, she kidnapped her--

The phone chirps.

                Ya see?  Nothing is fucked up here,
                Dude.  Nothing is fucked.  These  
                guys are fucking amateurs--

                Shutup, Walter!  Don't fucking say
                peep when I'm doing business here.

                Okay Dude.  Have it your way.

The Dude unclips the phone from the battery pack.

                But they're amateurs.

The Dude glares at Walter.  Into the phone:

                Dude here.

                Okay, vee proceed.  But only if there
                is no funny stuff.


                So no funny stuff.  Okay?

                Hey, just tell me where the fuck you
                want us to go.


It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.

                That was the sign.

Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.

                Yeah.  So as long as we get her back,
                nobody's in a position to complain.  
                And we keep the baksheesh.

                Terrific, Walter.  But you haven't
                told me how we get her back.  Where
                is she?

                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.


                Yeah.  That's a great plan, Walter.  
                That's fucking ingenious, if I
                understand it correctly.  That's a
                Swiss fucking watch.

                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.


                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

Click.  Dial tone.


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

                There is no fucking hand-off, Walter!  
                At a wooden bridge we throw the money
                out  of the car!


                We throw the money out of the moving

Walter stares dumbly for a beat.

                We can't do that, Dude.  That fucks
                up our plan.

                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!

                Wooden bridge, huh?

                I'm throwing the money, Walter!  
                We're not fucking around!

                The bridge is coming up!  Gimme the
                ringer, Dude!  Chop-chop!

                Fuck that!  I love you, Walter, but
                sooner or later you're gonna have to
                face the fact that you're a goddamn

                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.


                Your wheel, Dude!  I'm rolling out!

                What the fuck?

                Your wheel!  At fifteen em-pee-aitch
                I roll out!  I double back, grab one
                of 'em and beat it out of him!  The


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

                You didn't think I was rolling out
                of here naked!

                Walter, please--

Walter has flung open his door and is leaning halfway out
over the road.

                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.


Walter tumbles onto the shoulder and--RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!--muzzle
flashes tear open the wrapping paper.


The car rocks and the Dude wrestles with the wheel.


The car clunks and screams around in a skid.


The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something.


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.

                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

                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.


                Ahh fuck it, let's go bowling.


A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.


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.

                Aitz chaim he, Dude.  As the ex used
                to say.

                What the fuck is that supposed to
                mean?  What the fuck're we gonna
                tell Lebowski?

                Huh?  Oh, him, yeah.  Well I don't
                see, um-- what exactly is the problem?

The portable phone stops ringing.

                Huh?  The problem is--what do you
                mean what's the--there's no--we didn't--
                they're gonna kill that poor woman--

                What the fuck're you talking about?  
                That poor woman--that poor slut--
                kidnapped herself, Dude.  You said
                so yourself--

                No, Walter!  I said I thought she
                kidnapped herself!  You're the one
                who's so fucking certain--

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

Donny is trotting excitedly up.

                They posted the next round of the

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

                This Saturday.  Quintana and--

                Saturday!  Well they'll have to

                Walter, what'm I gonna tell Lebowski?

                I told that fuck down at the league
                office-- who's in charge of



                I told that kraut a fucking thousand
                times I don't roll on shabbas.

                It's already posted.


                Who gives a shit, Walter?  What about
                that poor woman?  What do we tell--

                C'mon Dude, eventually she'll get
                sick of her little game and, you
                know, wander back--

                How come you don't roll on Saturday,

                I'm shomer shabbas.

                What's that, Walter?

                Yeah, and in the meantime what do I
                tell Lebowski?

                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!


                Walter, how--

                Shomer shabbas.

The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.

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

                For Christ's sake, Dude.

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

Hell, you just tell him--well, you tell him, uh, we made the
hand-off, everything went, uh, you know--

                Oh yeah, how'd it go?

                Went alright.  Dude's car got a little
                dinged up--

                But Walter, we didn't make the fucking
                hand- off!  They didn't get, the
                fucking money and they're gonna--
                they're gonna--

                Yeah yeah, "kill that poor woman."

He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.

                Kill that poor woman.

                Walter, if you can't ride in a car,
                how d'you get around on Shammas--

                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?


                Who's got a fucking million fucking
                dollars parked in the trunk of our
                car out here?

                "Our" car, 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.

                Who has your undies, Walter?

                Where's your car, Dude?

                You don't know, Walter?  You seem to
                know the answer to everything else!

                Hmm.  Well, we were in a handicapped
                spot.  It, uh, it was probably towed.

                It's been stolen, Walter!  You fucking
                know it's been stolen!

                Well, certainly that's a possibility,

                Aw, fuck it.

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

                Where you going, Dude?

                I'm going home, Donny.

                Your phone's ringing, Dude.

                Thank you, Donny.


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:

                1972 Pontiac LeBaron.

                                YOUNGER COP

                Green.  Some brown, or, uh, rust,

                                YOUNGER COP
                And was there anything of value in  
                the car?


                Huh?  Oh.  Yeah.  Tape deck.  Couple
                of Creedence tapes.  And there was
                a, uh. . . my briefcase.

                                YOUNGER COP
                In the briefcase?

                Papers.  Just papers.  You know, my
                papers.  Business papers.

                                YOUNGER COP
                And what do you do, sir?

                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.

                ...Me, I don't drink coffee.  But
                it's nice when they offer.


                ...Also, my rug was stolen.

                                YOUNGER COP
                Your rug was in the car.

The Dude taps the floor with his foot.

                No.  Here.

                                YOUNGER COP
                Separate incidents?

The Dude stares at the floor.


                                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

                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.

                And the, uh, the briefcase?


                                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.


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

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.

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

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

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

                Is that what that's a picture of?

                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.

                Oh yeah?

                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".


                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"--


                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.

                Right, but let me explain something
                about that rug--

                Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?

                Excuse me?

                Sex.  The physical act of love.  
                Coitus.  Do you like it?

                I was talking about my rug.

                You're not interested in sex?

                You mean coitus?

                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.

                Oh, no.

                Yes Mr. Lebowski, these unfortunate
                souls cannot love in the true sense
                of the word.  Our mutual acquaintance
                Bunny is one of these.

                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?

                Take a look at this, sir.

She is aiming a remote at a projection TV.  The screen
flickers to life.  A title card:









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.

                Hello.  Nein dizbatcher says zere
                iss problem mit deine kable.

                Shit, I know that guy.  He's a

                And you recognize her, of course.

The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.

Bunny The TV is in here.

                Za, okay, I bring mein toolz.

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

                The story is ludicrous.

                Mein nommen iss Karl.  Is hard to
                verk in zese clozes--

Maude switches off the set.

                Lord.  You can imagine where it goes
                from here.

                He fixes the cable?

                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

                Shit yeah, the achievers.

                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

fornicator is taking my father for the proverbial ride.

                Yeah, but my-

                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.

                Well--sure, I could do that--

                If you successfully do so, I will
                compensate you to the tune of 1% of
                the recovered sum.

                A hundred.

                Thousand, yes, bones or clams or
                whatever you call them.

                Yeah, but what about--

                --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.

                Oh that's okay, I hardly even--

                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.

                That's really thoughtful but I--

                Please see him, Jeffrey.  He's a
                good man, and thorough.


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.

                --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."


                Fuckin' A, man.  I got a rash.                        
                Fuckin' A, man.  I gotta tell ya

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.

                Aw, forget about it.

                Yeah, man!  Fuck it!  I can't be
                worrying about that shit.  Life goes

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

                Home sweet home, Mr. L.  Who's your
                friend in the Volkswagon?


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

He followed us here.

The Dude turns to look.


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.


He scowls.

                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

As he is frog-marched towards another limo the Dude holds
his drink away from his chest and cups a hand underneath it.

                Fuck, man!  There's a beverage here!

The waiting limo's back door is flung open.


The Dude is shoved in and awkwardly takes a seat facing the
rear. The door is slammed behind him.

                Start talking and talk fast you lousy

                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.

                Where's my goddamn money, you bum?!

                Well we--I don't--

                They did not receive the money, you
                nitwit!  They  did not receive the
                goddamn money.  HER LIFE WAS IN YOUR

                This is our concern, Dude.

                No, man, nothing is fucked here--


The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.

                C'mon man, who're you gonna believe?  
                Those guys are--we dropped off the
                damn money--


                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?

                What in God's holy name are you
                blathering about?

                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.

                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...?  

                No.  No Mr. Lebowski, that had not
                occurred to me.

                That had not occurred to us, 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--

                Brandt, give him the envelope.

                Well, okay, if you've already made
                out the check.  Brandt is handing
                him a letter-sized envelope which is
                distended by something inside.

                We received it this morning.

The Dude, frowning, untucks its flap, takes out some cotton
wadding and unrolls it.

                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.

                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.

                ...By God sir.  I will not abide
                another toe.


The Dude and Walter sit at the counter, both staring off
into space, both absently stirring their coffee with little
clinking noises.


                That wasn't her toe.

                Whose toe was it, Walter?

                How the fuck should I know?  I do
                know that nothing about it indicates--

                The nail polish, Walter.

                Fine, Dude.  As if it's impossible
                to get some nail polish, apply it to
                someone else's toe--

                Someone else's--where the fuck are
                they gonna--

                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.

                But 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--

                They're gonna kill her, Walter, and
                then they're gonna kill me--

                Well that's just, that's the stress
                talking, Dude.  So far we have what
                looks to me like a series of
                victimless crimes--

                What about the toe?


A waitress enters.

                Could you please keep your voices
                down--this is a family restaurant.

                Oh, please dear!  I've got news for
                you: the Supreme Court has roundly
                rejected prior restraint!

                Walter, this isn't a First Amendment

                Sir, if you don't calm down I'm going
                to have to ask you to leave.

                Lady, I got buddies who died face-
                down in the muck so you and I could
                enjoy this family restaurant!


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

                Don't run away from this, Dude!  
                Goddamnit, this affects all of us!

The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:

                Our basic freedoms!

He looks defiantly around.

                I'm staying.  Finishing my coffee.

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

                Finishing my coffee.


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.

                Far out.  Far fuckin' out.

                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.


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.

                Hey!  This is a private residence,

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.

                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.


                Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!  

The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking
itself and convulsing in little sneezes.

                Jesus Christ!

                                FIRST MAN
                Tomorrow vee come back und cut off
                your chonson.

                Excuse me?

                                FIRST MAN

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!


A policeman with a clipboard is leading the Dude through a
large parking lot.

                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.

                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.

                My fucking briefcase!  It's not here!

                Yeah, sorry, I saw that on the report.  
                You're lucky they left the tape deck

                My fucking briefcase!  Jesus--what's
                that smell?

                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:

                When will you find these guys?  I
                mean, do you have any promising leads?

The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.

                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.


The Dude, Walter and Donny sit at the bar, the Dude with a
White Russian, Walter with a beer, and Donny eating beer

                And then they're gonna stamp on it?!

                Oh for Christ--will you shut the
                fuck up, Donny.

                I figure my only hope is that the
                big Lebowski kills me before the
                Germans can cut my dick off.

                Now that is ridiculous, Dude.  No
                one is going to cut your dick off.

                Thanks Walter.

                Not if I have anything to say about

                Yeah, thanks Walter.  That gives me
                a very secure feeling.


                That makes me feel all warm inside.

                Now Dude--

                This whole fucking thing--I  could
                be sitting here with just pee-stains
                on my rug.

Walter sadly shakes his head.

                Fucking Germans.  Nothing changes.  
                Fucking Nazis.

                They were Nazis, Dude?

                Come on, Donny, they were threatening


                Are you gonna split hairs?


                Am I wrong?


                They're nihilists.


                They kept saying they believe in

                Nihilists!  Jesus.

Walter looks haunted.

Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism,
Dude, at least it's an ethos.


                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.

                What're you, a fucking park ranger

                No, I'm--

                Who gives a shit about the fucking

                --We're sympathizing here, Dude--

                Fuck your sympathy!  I don't need
                your sympathy, man, I need my fucking

                What do you need that for, Dude?

                You gotta buck up, man, you can't go
                into the tournament with this negative

                Fuck the tournament!  Fuck you,

There is a moment of stunned silence.

                Fuck the tournament?!


                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


                Another Caucasian, Gary.

                Right, Dude.


                Friends like these, huh 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.


                D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?

We recognize the voice of The Stranger whose narration opened
the movie.

                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.

                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.

                Uh-huh.  That some kind of Eastern

                                THE STRANGER
                Far from it.


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.


                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.

                The fuck are you talking about?

The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the

                                THE STRANGER
                Okay, have it your way.

He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.

                                THE STRANGER
                Take it easy, Dude.

                Yeah.  Thanks man.

He is gone.  "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" is ending as we hear an
offscreen voice, breaking the spell:

                Dude!  Dude!


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


She strides toward us, naked under a robe which she is just
cinching shut.  Paint flecks her skin.

                Jeffrey, you haven't gone to the

                No it's fine, really, uh--

                Do you have any news regarding my
                father's money?

                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.

                She most certainly was not!

                Hey man, why don't you fucking listen
                occasionally?  You might learn
                something.  Now I got--

                And please don't call her my mother.

                Now I got--

                She is most definitely the perpetrator
                and not the victim.

                I'm telling you, I got definitive

                From who?

                The main guy, Dieter--

                Dieter Hauff?

                Well--yeah, I guess--

                Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?

                Beaver?  You mean vagina?--I mean,
                you know him?

                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.

                That was his group--they released
                one album in the mid-seventies.

The Dude stops between two albums.

                Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.

                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


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.

                Jeez.  I miss vinyl.

                Is he pretending to be the abductor?


                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.

                Well yeah...I know that.

                So Dieter has the money?

                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--

                Do you still have that doctor's

                Huh?  No, really, I don't even have
                the bruise any more, I--

She is scribbling.

                Please Jeffrey.  I don't want to be
                responsible for any delayed after-

                Delayed after-eff--

                I want you to see him immediately.

She is picking up a telephone.

                I'll see if he's available.  He's a
                good man, and thorough.


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.

                Could you slide your shorts down
                please, Mr.  Lebowski?

The Dude's eyes open.

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

                I understand sir.  Could you slide
                your shorts down please?


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.


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


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


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


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


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.

                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.

                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.


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

                He lives in North Hollywood on
                Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger--

                The In-and-Out Burger is on Camrose.

                Near the In-and-Out Burger--

                Those are good burgers, 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.

                Who the fuck is that?


                Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?

                Who the f--have you ever heard of a
                little show called Branded, Dude?


                All but one man died?  There at Bitter

                Yeah yeah, I know the fucking show
                Walter, so what?

                Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote
                156 episodes, Dude.


                The bulk of the series.


                Not exactly a lightweight.


                And yet his son is a fucking dunce.


                Yeah, go figure.  Well we'll go out
                there after the, uh, the.

He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.

                What have you.  We'll, uh--

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

                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.


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.

                Fuck me, man!  That kid's already
                spent all the money!

                Hardly Dude, a new 'vette?  The kid's
                still got, oh, 96 to 97 thousand,
                depending on the options.  Wait in
                the car, Donny.


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


                Hello, Pilar?  My name is Walter
                Sobchak, we spoke on the phone, this
                is my associate Jeffrey Lebowski.


                May we uh, we wanted to talk about
                little Larry.  May we come in?


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


                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.

                That's him, Dude.

                                VIVA VOCE
                And a good day to you, sir.

                See down, please.

                Thank you, ma'am.

He and the Dude sit on a sagging green sofa.  In a lowered
voice, to Pilar:

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

                No, no.  He has healt' problems.



                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,

There are footsteps on the stairs.  Larry, a fifteen-year-
old, looks at the two men.

                See down, Sweetie.  These are the

                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:

                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.

                Is this your homework, Larry?

Larry does not respond.

                Is this your homework, Larry?

                Look, man, did you--

                Dude, please!. . .  Is this your
                homework, Larry?

                Just ask him if he--ask him about
                the car, man!

Walter is still holding out the homework.

                Is this yours, Larry?  Is this your
                homework, Larry?

                Is the car out front yours?

                Is this your homework, Larry?

                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.

                Look, Larry. . . Have you ever heard
                of Vietnam?

                Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter!

                You're going to enter a world of
                pain, son.  We know that this is
                your homework.  We know you stole a

                And the fucking money!

                And the fucking money.  And we know
                that this is your homework, Larry.

No answer.

                You're gonna KILL your FATHER, Larry!.


                Ah, this is pointless.

As he shoves the homework back in the attache case:

                All right, Plan B.  You might want
                to watch out the front window there,

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

                This is what happens when you FUCK a
                STRANGER in the ASS, Larry.


Walter is striding down the lawn with his attache case like
an enraged encyclopedia salesman.  Without looking back at,
the Dude, who follows:

                Fucking language problem, Dude.

He pops the Dude's trunk, flings in the briefcase and takes
out a tire iron.

                Maybe he'll understand this.

He is walking over to the Corvette.

                YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

CRASH!  He swings the crowbar into the windshield, which

                YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!

CRASH!  He takes out the driver's window.

                STRANGER IN THE ASS!

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

                HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!


                IN THE ASS!


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.

                WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?!

He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.


Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.


The man looks about, wildly.

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

He runs over to the Dude's car.

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




                I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!


Glass rains in on a terrified, cringing, Donny.

                I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

                                          ON A DEAFENING CRASH WE CUT TO:


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.


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.

                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.

                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


Woo and the blond man who earlier peed on the rug stride in,
kicking the chair away.

                Pin your diapers on, Lebowski.  Jackie
                Treehorn wants to see you.

                                BLOND MAN
                And we know which Lebowski you are,

                Yeah.  Jackie Treehorn wants to talk
                to the deadbeat Lebowski.

                                BLOND MAN
                You're not dealing with morons here.


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.


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.


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

                Hello Dude, thanks for coming.  I'm
                Jackie Treehorn.


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

                This is quite a pad you got here,
                man.  Completely unspoiled.

                What's your drink, Dude?

                White Russian, thanks.  How's the
                smut business, Jackie?

                I wouldn't know, Dude.  I deal in
                publishing, entertainment, political
                advocacy, and--

                Which one was Logjammin'?

                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.

                People forget that the brain is the
                biggest erogenous zone--

                On you, maybe.

He hands him the drink.

                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.

                Uh-huh.  Well, I still jerk off

                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?

                I thought you might know, man.

                Me?  How would I know?  The only
                reason she ran off was to get away
                from her rather sizable debt to me.

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

Treehorn waves this off.

                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.

                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?

                Of course, there's that to discuss.  

                Does the Pope shit in the woods?

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

                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.

                I'll go out and mingle.--Jesus, you
                mix a hell of a Caucasian, Jackie.

The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus.

                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.

                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.


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



                                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.










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

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

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.


The Dude sits in the back seat, his head lolling with the
motion of the car as he blearily sings the theme of Branded:

                He was innocent.  Not a charge was
                true.  And they say he ran awaaaaaay.


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.

                This is your only I.D.?

He is looking at the Ralph's Shopper's Club card.
                I know my rights.

                You don't know shit, Lebowski.

                I want a fucking lawyer, man.  I
                want Bill Kunstler.

                What are you, some kind of sad-assed
                refugee from the fucking sixties?


                Mr. Treehorn tells us that he had to
                eject you from his garden party,
                that you were drunk and abusive.

                That guy treats women like objects,

                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.

                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.

                --Ow!  Fucking fascist!

The Chief slaps him twice.

                Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!

He kicks the chair out from under the Dude, and then starts
kicking at him.

                Stay out of Malibu, deadbeat!  Keep
                your ugly fucking goldbricking ass
                out of my beach community!


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.


The back of the driver, a large black man with rasta dreds
under a knit cap.

                Jesus, man, can you change the

                Fuck you man!  You don't like my
                fucking music, get your own fucking

                I've had a--

                I pull over and kick your ass out,

                --had a rough night, and I hate the
                fucking Eagles, man--

                That's it!  Outta this fucking cab!


The cab screeches over towards the curb.  Another car,
oncoming, its radio blaring Metallica, speeds by.


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.


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.


The Dude staggers in the open front door, one hand pressed
to a lump on his forehead, and looks around.


The place is a wreck.  Furniture has been overturned,
upholstery slashed, drawers dumped.


The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.

The Dude cringes.

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



She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.

                Love me.

The Dude is stupefied.

                That's my robe.

                                         THOOMP!  ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:


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

                Tell me a little about yourself,

                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.

                I was, uh, one of the authors of the
                Port Huron Statement.--The original
                Port Huron Statement.


                Not the compromised second draft.  
                And then I, uh. . . Ever hear of the
                Seattle Seven?


Click--the Dude turns on a bedside lamp.  He and Maude lie
next to each other in bed.

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


                Yeah.  Roadie for Metallica.  Speed
                of Sound Tour.


                Bunch of assholes.  And then, you
                know, little of this, little of that.
                My career's, uh, slowed down a bit

                What do you do for fun?

                Oh, you know, the usual.  Bowl.  
                Drive around.  The occasional acid

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.

                What happened to your house?

                Jackie Treehorn trashed the place.  
                Wanted to save the finder's fee.

                Finder's fee?

                He thought I had your father's money,
                so he got me out of the way while he
                looked for it.

                It's not my father's money, it's the
                Foundation's.  Why did he think you
                had it?  And who does?

                Larry Sellers, a high-school kid.  
                Real fucking brat.

He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.


                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--

                I keep telling you, it's the
                Foundation's money.  Father doesn't
                have any.

                Huh?  He's fucking loaded.

                No no, the wealth was all Mother's.

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

                We did let Father run one of the
                companies, briefly, but he didn't do
                very well at it.

                But he's--

                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.

                Huh.  Jeez.  Well, so, did he--is
                that yoga?

Throughout, Maude has been lying on her back with her knees
pulled in.

                It increases the chances of

The Dude spits some White Russian.


                Well yes, what did you think this
                was all about?  Fun and games?

      , of course not--

                I want a child.

                Yeah, okay, but see, the Dude--

                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.


Something occurs to him.

                So...that doctor.

                Exactly.  What happened to your face?  
                Did Jackie Treehorn do that as well?

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

                No, the, uh, police chief of Malibu.  
                A real reactionary. . . So your
                father. . . Oh man, I get it!


The Dude is leaving the bedroom.

                Yeah, my thinking about the case,
                man, it had become uptight.  Yeah.  
                Your father--


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.


                                MAUDE'S VOICE
                What're you talking about?


                Walter, if you're there, pick up the
                fucking phone.  Pick it up, Walter,
                this is an emergency.  I'm not--


                Walter, listen, I'm at my place, I
                need you to come pick me up--

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


                Erev shabbas.  I can't drive.  I'm
                not even supposed to pick up the
                phone, unless it's an emergency.

                It is a fucking emergency.

                I understand.  That's why I picked
                up the phone.

                THEN WHY CAN'T YOU--fuck, never mind,
                just call Donny then, and ask him to--

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

                GO TO PASADENA!  COME  PICK ME UP OR

                                MAUDE'S VOICE


He emerges on his front stoop, pulling on a shirt. His
attention is caught by something down the street.


A car is  parked halfway down the block.  We can see the
shape of a fat man in the driver's seat.


Striding purposefully down the street.


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.


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.

                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:

                Who the fuck are you, man!  Come on,

                Relax, man!  No physical harm

                Who the fuck are you?  Why've you
                been following me?  Come on, fuckhead!

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

The Dude is stunned.

                Brother Shamus?  Like an Irish monk?

                Irish m--What the fuck are you talking
                about?  My name's Da Fino!  I'm a
                private snoop!  Like you, man!


                                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.

                I'm not a--ah, fuck it, just stay
                away from my fucking lady friend,

                                DA FINO
                Hey hey, I'm not messing with your
                special lady--

                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--

                Who're you working for?  Lebowski?  
                Jackie Treehorn?

                                DA FINO
                The Gundersons.

                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

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.

                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

                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!

                Yeah, it sucks.

                                DA FINO
                Well maybe you and me could pool our
                resources--trade information--
                professional courtesy--compeers, you

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

                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


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

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.

                You folks ready?

The German shouting stops.  Dieter looks sourly up.

                I haff lingenberry pancakes.

                Lingenberry pancakes.

                Sree picks in blanket.

The woman speaks to Dieter in German.  He nods.

                Lingenberry pancakes.


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.

                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?

                Well it's, sometimes the cathartic,

                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.

                What's your point, 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!


                Shit yeah!

                Okay, but how does all this add up
                to an emergency?


                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--

                Walter, come off it.  You're not
                even fucking Jewish, you're--

                What the fuck are you talking about?

                You're fucking Polish Catholic--

                What the fuck are you talking about?  
                I converted when I married Cynthia!  
                Come on, Dude!

                Yeah, and you were--

                You know this!

                And you were divorced five fucking
                years ago.

                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?

                This driveway.


                I'm as Jewish as fucking Tevye

                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.

                Three thousand years of beautiful
                tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--
                PAST!   I--Jesus.  What the hell

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


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.

                Jesus Christ.


Tire treads lead across the manicured front lawn to where a
little red sports car rests with its hood crumpled into a
palm trunk.


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.

                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

                Where'd she been?

                Visiting friends of hers in Palm
                Springs.  Just picked up and left,
                never bothered to tell us.

                But I guess she told Dieter.

                Jesus, Dude!  He never even kidnapped

                Who's this gentleman, Dude?

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

                You shouldn't go in there, Dude!  
                He's very angry!

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


The big Lebowski turns at the sound of the door.  His
wheelchair hums as he spins it around.

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

                Where's the money, Lebowski?

                SCUM, MAN!

The dog yaps.

                Who the hell is he?

                I'll tell you who I am!  I'm the guy
                who's gonna KICK YOUR PHONY
                GOLDBRICKING ASS!

                We know the briefcase was empty,
                man.  We know you kept the million  
                bucks yourself.

                Well, you have your story, I have
                mine.  I say I entrusted the money
                to you, and you stole it.

                YOUR BULLSHIT MONEY!

                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.

                Well?  Aren't you?

                Well. . . yeah.

                All right, get out.  Both of you.

                Look at that fucking phony, Dude!  
                Pretending to be a fucking

                I said out.  Now.

                Let me tell you something else.  
                I've seen a lot of spinals, Dude,
                and this guy is a fake.  A fucking

He is crossing to Lebowski.

                This guy fucking walks.  I've never
                been more certain of anything in my

                Stay away from me, mister!

Walter reaches around from behind and hoists the big Lebowski
out of the wheelchair by his armpits.

                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.

                Put me down, you son of a bitch!


                It's all over, man!  We call your
                fucking bluff!

                WALTER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!  HE'S
                CRIPPLED!  PUT HIM DOWN!

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

He shoves the big Lebowski forward and he crumples to the
floor, weeping.

                Oh, shit.

                You're bullies!  Cowards, both of

Walter is abashed.  The Big Lebowski flails about on the

                Oh, shit.

                He can't walk, Walter!

                Yeah, I can see that, Dude.

                You monsters!

                Help me put him back in his chair.

Walter moves to comply.

                Shit, sorry man.


                Stay away from me!  You bullies!  
                You and these women!  You won't leave
                a man his fucking balls!

                Walter, you fuck!

                Shit, Dude, I didn't know.  I
                wouldn't've done it if I knew he was
                a fucking crybaby.

                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.

                There ya go.  Sorry man.

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

                Shit.  He didn't look like a spinal.


Scattered at the cut.


Each with a beer at the scoring table.

                Sure you'll see some tank battles.  
                But fighting in desert is very
                different from fighting in canopy


                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.


                That's fuckin' combat.  The man in
                the black pyjamas, Dude.  Worthy
                fuckin' adversary.

                Who's in pyjamas, 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--


The Dude and Walter look.

Quintana is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is
restrained by O'Brien.

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

Walter looks at him innocently.

                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!


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

                You got a date Wednesday, man!

Walter, his head cocked, and the Dude, peeking over his
shades, watch him go.

                He's cracking.


Donny, Walter and the Dude emerge from the alley, each holding
his leatherette ball satchel.

                A tree of life, Dude.  To all who
                cling to it.

They react to the droning synthesizer-based technopop coming
from a boom box.


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

                They finally did it.  They killed my
                fucking car.

                Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

                Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.

                Ja, it seems you forgot our little
                deal, Lebowski.

                You don't have the fucking girl,
                dipshits.  We know you never did.  
                So you've got nothin' on my Johnson.


The men in black, stunned, confer amongst themselves in
German.  Under his breath:

                Are these the Nazis, Walter?

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

                They're nihilists, Donny, nothing to
                be afraid of.

The Germans stop conferring.

                Vee don't care.  Vee still vant zat
                money or vee fuck you up.

                Ja, vee still vant ze money.  Vee
                sreaten you.

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

                Fuck you.  Fuck the three of you.

                Hey, cool it Walter.

Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:

                There's no ransom if you don't have
                a fucking hostage.  That's what ransom
                is.  Those are the fucking rules.

                Zere ARE no ROOLZ!

                OF- BITCHES--

                His girlfriend gafe up her toe!  She
                sought we'd be getting million
                dollars!  Iss not fair!

                Fair!  WHO'S THE FUCKING NIHILIST
                HERE!  WHAT ARE YOU, A BUNCH OF
                FUCKING CRYBABIES?!

                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.

                AND I'D LIKE MY UNDIES BACK!

The Germans confer again, in German.

Donny is visibly frightened.

                Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?


                They won't hurt us, Donny.  These
                men are cowards.


                Okay.  Vee take ze money you haf on
                you und vee call it eefen.

                Fuck you.

The Dude is digging into his pocket.

                Come on, Walter, we're ending this
                thing cheap.

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

                What's mine is mine.

                Come on, Walter!.

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

                Four dollars here!

He inspects the change in his palm.

                Almost five!

                I got eighteen dollars, Dude.

                What's mine is mine.

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

                VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!  VEE TAKE YOUR

                Come and get it.

                VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!

                Come and get it.  Fucking nihilist.

                I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!

                Show me what you got.  Nihilist.  
                Dipshit with a nine-toed woman.

In a rage, Dieter charges.

                I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!


hurls his leather satchel.


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.


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.


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.


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


Dieter drops it.


Awkwardly circling, evading Franz's kicks.


still worrying the ear.  With a tearing sound his head and
Dieter's separate.


                I FUCK YOU!  YOU CANNOT HURT ME!  I
                BELIEF IN NUSSING!

Walter spits his ear into his face.


The Dude and Franz, both now panting heavily, have yet to
establish body contact.  Franz continues to kick.



draws back his fist.



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


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

All quiet.

Walter, panting, looks around.

                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.

                Hy God!  They shot him, Walter!

                No Dude.

                They shot Donny!

Donny gasps for air.  His eyes, wide, go from the Dude to
Walter.  One hand still clutches his eighteen dollars.

                There weren't any shots.

                Then what's...

                It's a heart attack.


                Call the medics, Dude.

                Wha. . . Donny--

                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.

                Rest easy, good buddy, you're doing
                fine.  We got help choppering in.





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.

                Hello, gentlemen.  You are the

                Yeah man.

                Francis Donnelly.  Pleased to meet

                Jeffrey Lebowski.

                Walter Sobchak.

                The Dude, actually.  Is what, uh.

                Excuse me?


                Yes.  I understand you're taking
                away the remains.


                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.

                And I assume this is credit card?

He is vaguely handing a large leather folder across the desk
to whomever wants to take it.


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.

                What's this?

                That is for the urn.

                Don't need it.  We're scattering the

                Yes, so we were informed.  However,
                we must of course transmit the remains
                to you in a receptacle.

                This is a hundred and eighty dollars.

                Yes sir.  It is our most modestly
                priced receptacle.

                Well can we--

                A hundred and eighty dollars?!

                They range up to three thousand.

                Yeah, but we're--

                Can we just rent it from you?

                Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental

                We're scattering the fucking ashes!


                MEAN WE'RE SAPS!

                Sir, please lower your voice--

                Hey man, don't you have something
                else you could put it in?

                That is our most modestly priced



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:

                I'll say a few words.

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

                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.

                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.

                the Pacific Ocean, which you loved
                so well.


                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.

                Shit, I'm sorry Dude.

He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.

                Goddamn wind.

Heretofore motionless, the Dude finally explodes, slapping
Walter's hands away.

                Goddamnit Walter!  You fucking

                Dude!  Dude, I'm sorry!

The Dude is near tears.

                You make everything a fucking

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

The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.

                What about that shit about Vietnam!

                Dude, I'm sorry--

                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

                Shit Dude, I'm sorry--

                You're a fuck, Walter!

He gives Walter a weaker shove.  Walter seems dazed, then
wraps his arms around the Dude.

                Awww, fuck it Dude.  Let's go 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.


The Dude walks up to the bar.

                Two oat sodas, Gary.

                Right.  Good luck tomorrow.

                Thanks, man.

                Sorry to hear about Donny.

                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.

                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'?

                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.

                Thanks, Gary...Take care, man, I
                gotta get back.

                                THE STRANGER
                Sure.  Take it easy, Dude--I know
                that you will.


                Yeah man.  Well, you know, the Dude

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

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

                                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?...