THE BIG LEBOWSKI

We are floating up a steep scrubby slope.  We hear male voices
gently singing "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" and a deep, affable,
Western-accented voice--Sam Elliot's, perhaps:

                                VOICE-OVER
                A way out west there was a fella,
                fella I want to tell you about, fella
                by the name of Jeff Lebowski.  At
                least, that was the handle his lovin'
                parents gave him, but he never had
                much use for it himself.  This
                Lebowski, he called himself the Dude.  
                Now, Dude, that's a name no one would
                self-apply where I come from.  But
                then, there was a lot about the Dude
                that didn't make a whole lot of sense
                to me.  And a lot about where he
                lived, like- wise.  But then again,
                maybe that's why I found the place
                s'durned innarestin'.

We top the rise and the smoggy vastness of Los Angeles at
twilight stretches out before us.

                                VOICE-OVER
                They call Los Angeles the City of
                Angels.  I didn't find it to be that
                exactly, but I'll allow as there are
                some nice folks there.  'Course, I
                can't say I seen London, and I never
                been to France, and I ain't never
                seen no queen in her damn undies as
                the fella says.  But I'll tell you
                what, after seeing Los Angeles and
                thisahere story I'm about to unfold--
                wal, I guess I seen somethin' ever'
                bit as stupefyin' as ya'd see in any
                a those other places, and in English
                too, so I can die with a smile on my
                face without feelin' like the good
                Lord gypped me.

INTERIOR   RALPH'S

It is late, the supermarket all but deserted.  We are tracking
in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the
dairy case.  He is the Dude.  His rumpled look and relaxed
manner suggest a man in whom casualness runs deep.

He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their
expiration dates.

                                VOICE-OVER
                Now this story I'm about to unfold
                took place back in the early nineties--
                just about the time of our conflict
                with Sad'm and the Eye-rackies.  I
                only mention it 'cause some- times
                there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro,
                'cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes
                there's a man.

The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of
milk.  He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs.

                                VOICE-OVER
                And I'm talkin' about the Dude here--
                sometimes there's a man who, wal,
                he's the man for his time'n place,
                he fits right in there--and that's
                the Dude, in Los Angeles.

CHECKOUT GIRL

She waits, arms folded.  A small black-and white TV next to
her register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with
helicopter rotors spinning behind him.

                                GEORGE BUSH
                This aggression will not stand. . .
                This will not stand!

The Dude, peeking over his shades, scribbles something at
the little customer's lectern.  Milk beads his mustache.

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

The Dude has his Ralph's Shopper's Club card to one side and
is making out a check to Ralph's for sixty-nine cents.

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

EXTERIOR  RALPH'S

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

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

The Dude is a small figure walking across the vast lot.  
Next to him walks a Mexican carry-out boy in a red apron and
cap carrying a small brown bag holding the quart of milk.  
The two men's footsteps echo in the still of the night.

After a beat of walking the Dude offhandedly points.

                                DUDE
                It's the LeBaron.

DUDE'S HOUSE

The Dude is going up the walkway of a small Venice bungalow
court.  He holds the paper sack in one hand and a small
leatherette satchel in the other.  He awkwardly hugs the
grocery bag against his chest as he turns a key in his door.

INSIDE

The Dude enters and flicks on a light.

His head is grabbed from behind and tucked into an armpit.  
We track with him as he is rushed through the living room,
his arm holding the satchel flailing away from his body.  
Going into the bedroom the outflung satchel catches a piece
of doorframe and wallboard and rips through it, leaving a
hole.

The Dude is propelled across the bedroom and on into a small
bathroom, the satchel once again taking away a piece of
doorframe.  His head is plunged into the toilet.  The paper
bag hugged to his chest explodes milk as it hits the toilet
rim and the satchel pulverizes tile as it crashes to the
floor.

The Dude blows bubbles.

                                VOICE
                We want that money, Lebowski.  Bunny
                said you were good for it.

Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet. The Dude blubbers and
gasps for air.

                                VOICE
                Where's the money, Lebowski!

His head is plunged back into the toilet.

                                VOICE
                Where's the money, Lebowski!

The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping.

                                VOICE
                WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY, SHITHEAD!

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

His head is plunged back in.

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

The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and
flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against
the toilet.

The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand.

Looming over him is a strapping blond man.

Beyond in the living room a young Chinese man unzips his fly
and walks over to a rug.

                                CHINESE MAN
                Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski.

He starts peeing on the rug.

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

                                DUDE
                Oh, man.  Don't do--

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

The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.

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

                                BLOND MAN
                Your name is Lebowski.  Your wife is
                Bunny.

                                DUDE
                Bunny?  Look, moron.

He holds up his hands.

                                DUDE
                You see a wedding ring?  Does this
                place look like I'm fucking married?  
                All my plants are dead!

The blond man stoops to unzip the satchel.  He pulls out a
bowling ball and examines it in the manner of a superstitious
native.

                                BLOND MAN
                The fuck is this?

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

                                DUDE
                Obviously you're not a golfer.

The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.

                                BLOND MAN
                Woo?

The Chinese man is zipping his fly.

                                WOO
                Yeah?

                                BLOND MAN
                Wasn't this guy supposed to be a
                millionaire?

                                WOO
                Uh?

They both look around.

                                WOO
                Fuck.

                                BLOND MAN
                What do you think?

                                WOO
                He looks like a fuckin' loser.

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

                                DUDE
                Hey.  At least I'm housebroken.

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

                                WOO
                Fuckin' waste of time.

The blond man turns testily at the door.

                                BLOND MAN
                Thanks a lot, asshole.

                                                 ON THE DOOR SLAM WE CUT TO:

BOWLING PINS

Scattered by a strike.

Music and head credits play over various bowling shots--pins
flying, bowlers hoisting balls, balls gliding down lanes,
sliding feet, graceful releases, ball return spinning up a
ball, fingers sliding into fingerholes, etc.

The music turns into boomy source music, coming from a distant
jukebox, as the credits end over a clattering strike.

A lanky blonde man with stringy hair tied back in a ponytail
turns from the strike to walk back to the bench.

                                MAN
                Hot damn, I'm throwin' rocks tonight.  
                Mark it, Dude.

We are tracking in on the circular bench towards a big man
nursing a large plastic cup of Bud.  He has dark worried
eyes and a goatee.  Hairy legs emerge from his khaki shorts.  
He also wears a khaki army surplus shirt with the sleeves
cut off over an old bowling shirt.  This is Walter.  He
squints through the smoke from his own cigarette as he
addresses the Dude at the scoring table.

The Dude, also holding a large plastic cup of Bud, wears
some of its foam on his mustache.

                                WALTER
                This was a valued rug.

He elaborately clears his throat.

                                WALTER
                This was, uh--

                                DUDE
                Yeah man, it really tied the room
                together--

                                WALTER
                This was a valued, uh.

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

                                DONNY
                What tied the room together, Dude?

                                WALTER
                Were you listening to the story,
                Donny?

                                DONNY
                What--

                                WALTER
                Were you listening to the Dude's
                story?

                                DONNY
                I was bowling--

                                WALTER
                So you have no frame of reference,
                Donny.  You're like a child who
                wanders in in the middle of a movie
                and wants to know--

                                DUDE
                What's your point, Walter?

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

                                DONNY
                Yeah Walter, what's your point?

                                WALTER
                Huh?

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

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

                                DONNY
                What the fuck is he talking about?

                                DUDE
                My rug.

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

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

                                WALTER
                What the fuck are you talking about?!  
                This Chinaman is not the issue!  I'm
                talking about drawing a line in the
                sand, Dude.  Across this line you do
                not, uh--and also, Dude, Chinaman is
                not the preferred, uh. . . Asian-
                American.  Please.

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

                                WALTER
                What the fuck are you--

                                DUDE
                Walter, he peed on my rug--

                                DONNY
                He peed on the Dude's rug--

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

                                DUDE
                So who--

                                WALTER
                Jeff Lebowski.  Come on.  This other
                Jeffrey Lebowski.  The millionaire.  
                He's gonna be easier to find anyway
                than these two, uh. these two  . . .
                And he has the wealth, uh, the
                resources obviously, and there is no
                reason, no FUCKING reason, why his
                wife should go out and owe money and
                they pee on your rug.  Am I wrong?

                                DUDE
                No, but--

                                WALTER
                Am I wrong!

                                DUDE
                Yeah, but--

                                WALTER
                Okay. That, uh.

He elaborately clears his throat.

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

                                DUDE
                Fuckin' A.

                                DONNY
                And this guy peed on it.

                                WALTER
                Donny!  Please!

                                DUDE
                Yeah, I could find this Lebowski guy--

                                DONNY
                His name is Lebowski?  That's your
                name, Dude!

                                DUDE
                Yeah, this is the guy, this guy should
                compensate me for the fucking rug.  
                I mean his wife goes out and owes
                money and they pee on my rug.

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

CLOSE ON A PLAQUE

We pull back from the name JEFFREY LEBOWSKI engraved in silver
to reveal that the plaque, from Variety Clubs International,
honors Lebowski as ACHIEVER OF THE YEAR.

Reflected in the plaque we see the Dude entering the room
with a YOUNG MAN.  We hear the two men talk:

                                YOUNG MAN
                And this is the study.  You can see
                the various commendations, honorary
                degrees, et cetera.

                                DUDE
                Yes, uh, very impressive.

                                YOUNG MAN
                Please, feel free to inspect them.

                                DUDE
                I'm not really, uh.

                                YOUNG MAN
                Please!  Please!

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.

We are panning the walls, looking at various citations and

certificates unrelated to the ones being discussed offscreen:

                                YOUNG MAN
                That's the key to the city of
                Pasadena, which Mr. Lebowski was
                given two years ago in recognition
                of his various civic, uh.

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.

                                YOUNG MAN
                That's a Los Angeles Chamber of
                Commerce Business Achiever award,
                which is given--not necessarily given
                every year!  Given only when there's
                a worthy, somebody especially--

                                DUDE
                Hey, is this him with Nancy?

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

                                DUDE
                Lebowski on the right?

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

                                DUDE
                He's handicapped, huh?

                                YOUNG MAN
                Mr. Lebowski is disabled, yes.  And
                this picture was taken when Mrs.
                Reagan was first lady of the nation,
                yes, yes? Not of California.

                                DUDE
                Far out.

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

                                DUDE
                Nancy's pretty good.

                                YOUNG MAN
                Wonderful woman.  We were very--

                                DUDE
                Are these.

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

                                DUDE
                Different mothers, huh?

                                YOUNG MAN
                No, they--

                                DUDE
                I guess he's pretty, uh, racially
                pretty cool--

                                YOUNG MAN
                They're not his, heh-heh, they're
                not literally his children; they're
                the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,
                inner-city children of promise but
                without the--

                                DUDE
                I see.

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

                                DUDE
                Jeez.  Think he's got room for one
                more?

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

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

                                YOUNG MAN
                Heh-heh--

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

                                YOUNG MAN
                Yes, heh--

                                DUDE
                --and bowling.  I'll tell you the
                truth, Brandt, I don't remember most
                of it.--Jeez!  Fuck me!

Our continuing track and pan have brought us onto a framed
Life Magazine cover which is headlined ARE YOU A LEBOWSKI
ACHIEVER?  Oddly, the Dude's sunglassed face is on it; we
realize that, under the magazine's logo and headline, the
display is mirrored.

We hear the door open and the whine of a motor.  The Dude,
wearing shorts and a bowling shirt, turns to look.

So does Brandt, the young man we've been listening to.  He
wears a suit and has his hands clasped in front of his groin.

Entering the room is a fat sixtyish man in a motorized
wheelchair--Jeff Lebowski.

                                LEBOWSKI
                Okay sir, you're a Lebowski, I'm a
                Lebowski, that's terrific, I'm very
                busy so what can I do for you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                Did I urinate on your rug?

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

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

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                Hello!  Hello!  So every time--I
                just want to understand this, sir--
                every time a rug is micturated upon
                in this fair city, I have to
                compensate the--

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

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

                                DUDE
                Look, let me explain something.  
                I'm not Mr. Lebowski;  you're Mr.
                Lebowski.  I'm the Dude.  So that's  
                what  you  call me.  That, or Duder.
                His  Dudeness.  Or El Duderino, if,  
                you know, you're not into the whole
                brevity thing--

                                LEBOWSKI
                Are you employed, sir?

                                DUDE
                Employed?

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

                                DUDE
                Is this a--what day is this?

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

                                DUDE
                No, look.  I do mind.  The Dude minds.  
                This will not stand, ya know, this
                will not stand, man.  I mean, if
                your wife owes--

                                LEBOWSKI
                My wife is not the issue here. I
                hope that my wife will someday learn
                to live on her allowance, which is
                ample, but if she doesn't, sir, that
                will be her problem, not mine, just
                as your rug is your problem, just as
                every bum's lot in life is his own
                responsibility regardless of whom he
                chooses to blame.  I didn't blame
                anyone for the loss of my legs, some
                chinaman in Korea took them from me
                but I went out and achieved anyway.  
                I can't solve your problems, sir,
                only you can.

The Dude rises.

                                DUDE
                Ah fuck it.

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

The Dude is heading for the door.

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

As the Dude opens the door.

                                LEBOWSKI
                ...My advice is, do what your parents
                did!  Get a job, sir!  The bums will
                always lose-- do you hear me,
                Lebowski?  THE BUMS WILL ALWAYS--

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

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

                                BRANDT
                How was your meeting, Mr. Lebowski?

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

WALKWAY

A houseman with a rolled-up carpet on one shoulder goes down
a stone walk that winds through the back lawn, past a swimming
pool to a garage.  Brandt and the Dude follow.

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

                                DUDE
                It's the LeBaron.

DUDE'S POINT OF VIEW

Tracking toward the pool.  A young woman sits facing it, her
back to us, leaning forward to paint her toenails.

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

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

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

CLOSER TRACK

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

THE DUDE

Looking.

WIDER

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

She leans back and extends her leg toward the Dude.

                                YOUNG WOMAN
                Blow on them.

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

                                DUDE
                Huh?

She waggles her foot and giggles.

                                YOUNG WOMAN
                G'ahead.  Blow.

The Dude tentatively grabs hold of her extended foot.

                                DUDE
                You want me to blow on your toes?

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

The Dude looks over at the pool.

                                DUDE
                You sure he won't mind?

The man bobbing in the inflatable chair is passed out.  He
is thin, in his thirties, with long stringy blond hair.  He
wears black leather pants and a black leather jacket, open,
shirtless, exposing fine blond chest hair and pale skin.  
One arm trails off into the water; next to it, an empty
whiskey bottle bobs.

                                YOUNG WOMAN
                Dieter doesn't care about anything.  
                He's a nihilist.

                                DUDE
                Practicing?

The young woman smiles.

                                YOUNG WOMAN
                You're not blowing.

Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.

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

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

                                DUDE
                You're Bunny?

                                BUNNY
                I'll suck your cock for a thousand
                dollars.

Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:

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

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

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

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

SHOULDER:

                                DUDE
                I'm just gonna find a cash machine.

BOWLING PINS

Scattered by a strike.

THE BOWLERS

Donny calls out from the bench:

                                DONNY
                Grasshopper Dude--They're dead in
                the water!!

As the Dude walks back to the scoring table he turns to
another team in black bowling shirts--the Cavaliers--that
shares the lane.

                                DUDE
                Your maples, Carl.

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

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

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

                                WALTER
                Theodore Herzel.

                                DUDE
                Huh?

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

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

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

                                DUDE
                What the fuck are you--

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

                                DUDE
                You brought a fucking Pomeranian
                bowling?

                                WALTER
                What do you mean "brought it bowling"?  
                I didn't rent it shoes.  I'm not
                buying it a fucking beer.  He's not
                gonna take your fucking turn, Dude.

He lets the small yapping dog out of the carrier.  It scoots
around the bowling table, sniffing at bowlers and wagging
its tail.

                                DUDE
                Hey, man, if my fucking ex-wife asked
                me to take care of her fucking dog
                while she and her boyfriend went to
                Honolulu, I'd tell her to go fuck
                herself.  Why can't she board it?

                                WALTER
                First of all, Dude, you don't have
                an ex, secondly, it's a fucking show
                dog with fucking papers.  You can't
                board it.  It gets upset, its hair
                falls out.

                                DUDE
                Hey man--

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

Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.

                                WALTER
                Smokey Huh?

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

                                SMOKEY
                Bullshit.  Eight, Dude.

                                WALTER
                Excuse me!  Mark it zero.  Next frame.

                                SMOKEY
                Bullshit. Walter!

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

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

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

                                SMOKEY
                Yeah, but--

                                WALTER
                Am I wrong!?

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

Walter takes out a gun.

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

                                DUDE
                Hey Walter--

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

                                SMOKEY
                I'm not--

                                WALTER
                A world of pain.

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

                                SMOKEY
                Look Dude, I don't hold with this.  
                This guy is your partner, you should--

Walter primes the gun and points it at his head.

                                WALTER
                HAS THE WHOLE WORLD GONE CRAZY?  AM
                I THE ONLY ONE HERE WHO GIVES A SHIT
                ABOUT THE RULES?  MARK IT ZERO!

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

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

                                WALTER
                MARK IT ZERO!

                                SMOKEY
                Walter--

                                WALTER
                YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND HERE?  
                MARK IT ZERO!!

                                SMOKEY
                All right!  There it is!  It's fucking
                zero!

He points frantically at the score projected above the lane.

                                SMOKEY
                You happy, you crazy fuck?

                                WALTER
                This is a league game, Smokey!

PARKING LOT

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

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

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

                                DUDE
                And you know Smokey has emotional
                problems!

                                WALTER
                You mean--beyond pacifism?

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

As the two men get into the car:

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

                                DUDE
                No, you're not wrong--

                                WALTER
                Am I wrong!

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

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

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

                                DUDE
                Just, just take it easy, Walter.

                                WALTER
                That's your answer to everything,
                Dude.  And let me point out--pacifism
                is not--look at our current situation
                with that camelfucker in Iraq--
                pacifism is not something to hide
                behind.

                                DUDE
                Well, just take 't easy, man.

                                WALTER
                I'm perfectly calm, Dude.

                                DUDE
                Yeah?  Wavin' a gun around?!

                                WALTER
                        (smugly)
                Calmer than you are.

-his irritates the Dude further.

                                DUDE
                Just take it easy, man!

Walter is still smug.

                                WALTER
                Calmer than you are.

DUDE'S HOUSE

A large, brilliant Persian rug lies beneath the Dude's beat-
up old furniture.

At the table next to the answering machine the Dude is mixing
kalhua, rum and milk.

                                VOICE
                Dude, this is Smokey.  Look, I don't
                wanna be a hard-on about this, and I
                know it wasn't your fault, but I
                just thought it was fair to tell you
                that Gene and I will be submitting
                this to the League and asking them
                to set aside the round.  Or maybe
                forfeit it to us--

                                DUDE
                Shit!

                                VOICE
                --so, like I say, just thought, you
                know, fair warning.  Tell Walter.

A beep.

                                ANOTHER VOICE
                Mr. Lebowski, this is Brandt at, uh,
                well--at Mr. Lebowski's office.  
                Please call us as soon as is
                convenient.

Beep.

                                ANOTHER VOICE
                Mr. Lebowski, this is Fred Dynarski
                with the Southern Cal Bowling League.  
                I just got a, an informal report,
                uh, that a uh, a member of your team,
                uh, Walter Sobchak, drew a loaded
                weapon during league play--

We hear the doorbell.

THE DOOR

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

                                DUDE
                Hiya Allan.

                                ALLAN
                Dude, I finally got the venue I
                wanted.  I'm Performing my dance
                quintet--you know, my cycle--at Crane
                Jackson's Fountain Street Theatre on
                Tuesday night, and I'd love it if
                you came and gave me notes.

The Dude takes a swig of his kalhua.

                                DUDE
                Sure Allan, I'll be there.

                                ALLAN
                Dude, uh, tomorrow is already the
                tenth.

                                DUDE
                Yeah, yeah I know. Okay.

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah, okay.

BACK IN THE LIVING ROOM

The  voice continues on the machine.

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

                                VOICE
                Mr. Lebowski, Brandt again.  Please
                do call us when you get in and I'll
                send the limo.  Let me assure you--I
                hope you're not avoiding this call
                because of the rug, which, I assure
                you, is not a problem.  We need your
                help and, uh--well we would very
                much like to see you.  Thank you.  
                It's Brandt.

TRACKING

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

HIS SHOULDER:

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

                                DUDE
                Huh.

Brandt throws open a pair of heavy double doors.  The music
washes over us as we enter a great study where Jeffrey
Lebowski, a blanket thrown over his knees, stares hauntedly
into a fire, listening to Lohengrin.

BRANDT ANNOUNCES, AMBIGUOUSLY:

                                BRANDT
                Mr. Lebowski.

Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.

                                LEBOWSKI
                It's funny.  I can look back on a
                life of achievement, on challenges
                met, competitors bested, obstacles
                overcome.  I've accomplished more
                than most men, and without the use
                of my legs.  What. . . What makes a
                man, Mr. Lebowski?

                                DUDE
                Dude.

                                LEBOWSKI
                Huh?

                                DUDE
                I don't know, sir.

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

                                DUDE
                Sure.  That and a pair of testicles.

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                You're joking.  But perhaps you're
                right.

The Dude thumps at his chest pocket.

                                DUDE
                Mind if I smoke a jay?

                                LEBOWSKI
                Bunny.

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

                                DUDE
                'Scuse me?

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

                                DUDE
                Fuckin' A.

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

He clears his throat.

                                LEBOWSKI
                I received this fax this morning.

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                As you can see, it is a ransom note.  
                Sent by cowards.  Men who are unable
                to achieve on a level field of play.  
                Men who will not sign their names.  
                Weaklings.  Bums.

THE DUDE EXAMINES THE FAX:

WE HAVE BUNNY.  GATHER ONE MILLION DOLLARS IN UNMARKED NON-
CONSECUTIVE TWENTIES.  AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.  NO FUNNY STUFF.

                                DUDE
                Bummer.

Lebowski looks soulfully at the Dude.

                                LEBOWSKI
                Brandt will fill you in on the
                details.

He wheels his chair around to once again gaze into the fire.  
Brandt tugs at the Dude's shirt and points him back to the
hall.

HALLWAY

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

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

                                DUDE
                Why me, man?

                                BRANDT
                He suspects that the culprits might
                be the very people who, uh, soiled
                your rug, and you're in a unique
                position to confirm or, uh, disconfirm
                that suspicion.

                                DUDE
                So he thinks it's the carpet-pissers,
                huh?

                                BRANDT
                Well Dude, we just don't know.

BOWLING PINS

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

WIDER

Still in slow motion.  We are looking across the length of
the bowling alley at a tall, thin, Hispanic bowler displaying
perfect form.  He wears an all-in-one dacron-polyester stretch
bowling outfit with a racing stripe down each side.

FAST TRACK IN

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

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

BACK TO THE BOWLER

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

                                WALTER
                Yeah, but he's a fucking pervert,
                Dude.

                                DUDE
                Huh?

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

FLASHBACK

We see Quintana, in pressed jeans and a stretchy sweater,  
walking up a stoop in a residential neighborhood and zinging
the bell.

The VOICE-OVER conversation continues.

                                DUDE
                Huh.

                                WALTER
                When he moved down to Venice he had
                to go door-to-door to tell everyone
                he's a pederast.

The door swings open and a beer-swilling middle-aged man
looks dully out at Quintana, who looks hesitantly up.

                                DONNY
                What's a pederast, Walter?

                                WALTER
                Shut the fuck up, Donny.

PINS

scattered by a strike.

QUINTANA

wheeling and thrusting a black gloved fist into the air.

Stitched above the breast pocket of his all-in-one is his
first name, "Jesus".

BACK TO WALTER AND THE DUDE

They have been joined by Donny.

                                WALTER
                Anyway.  How much they offer you?

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

                                WALTER
                Just for making the hand-off?

                                DUDE
                Yeah.

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

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

                                WALTER
                What if it's during a game?

                                DUDE
                I told him if it was during league
                play--

Donny has been watching Quintana.

                                DONNY
                If what's during league play?

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

                                DONNY
                What's wrong with Walter, Dude?

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

                                WALTER
                Huh?

                                DONNY
                What do you mean, Dude?

                                DUDE
                Rug-peers did not do this.  I mean
                look at it.  Young trophy wife.  
                Marries a guy for money but figures
                he isn't giving her enough.  She
                owes money all over town--

                                WALTER
                That...fucking...bitch!

                                DUDE
                It's all a goddamn fake.  Like Lenin
                said, look for the person who will
                benefit.  And you will, uh, you know,
                you'll, uh, you know what I'm trying
                to say--

                                DONNY
                I am the Walrus.

                                WALTER
                That fucking bitch!

                                DUDE
                Yeah.

                                DONNY
                I am the Walrus.

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

                                DONNY
                What the fuck is he talking about?

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah, well, what do you care, Walter?

                                DONNY
                Yeah Dude, why is Walter so pissed
                off?

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

                                DUDE
                I don't see any connection to Vietnam,
                Walter.

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

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

                                WALTER
                Have it your way.  The point is--

                                DUDE
                It's your roll--

                                WALTER
                The fucking point is--

                                DUDE
                It's your roll.

                                VOICE
                Are you ready to be fucked, man?

They both look up.

Quintana, on his way out, looks down at them from the lip of
the lanes.  Over his polyester all-in-one he now wears a
windbreaker with a racing stripe and "Jesus" stitched on the
breast.  He is holding a fancy black-and-red leather ball
satchel (perhaps a Sylvia Wein).  Behind him stands his
partner, O'Brien, a short fat Irishman with tufted red hair.

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

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

Quintana looks at Walter.

                                QUINTANA
                Let me tell you something, bendeco.  
                You pull any your crazy shit with
                us, you flash a piece out on the
                lanes, I'll take it away from you
                and stick it up your ass and pull
                the fucking trigger til it goes
                "click".

                                DUDE
                Jesus.

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

Jesus walks away.  Walter nods sadly.

                                WALTER
                Eight-year-olds, Dude.

DUDE'S BUNGALOW

We are looking down at the Dude who is prone on the rug.  
His eyes are closed.  He wears a Walkman headset.  Leaking
tinnily through the headphones we can just hear an
intermittent clatter.

In his outflung hand lies a cassette case labeled VENICE
BEACH LEAGUE PLAYOFFS 1987.

The Dude absently licks his lips as we faintly hear a hall
rumbling down the lane.  On its impact with the pins, the
Dude opens his eyes.

He screams.

A blonde woman looms over him.  Next to  her a  young man  
in paint-spattered denims stoops and swings something towards
the carrier.

The sap catches the Dude on the chin and sends  his head
thunking back onto the rug.

A million stars explode against a field of black.  We hear
the "La-la-la-la" of The Man in Me.

The black field  dissolves into  the pattern  of the  rug.  
The rug rolls away to reveal an aerial view of  the city  of
Los  Angeles at twilight, moving below us at great speed.

The Dude is flying over the city, his arms thrown out in
front of him, the wind whipping his hair and billowing his
bowling shirt. He looks up.

Ahead the mysterious blonde woman wings away, riding on the
Dude's rug like a sheik on a magic carpet.  She is outpacing
us, growing smaller.

The Dude does a couple of lazy crawl strokes and then notices
that a bowling ball has materialized in his forward hand.  
His bemusement turns to concern over the aerodynamic
implications just as the ball seems to suddenly assume its
weight, abruptly snapping his arm down, and him after it. He
is falling. From a high angle we see the Dude hurtling down
toward the city, dragged by the ball.

A  reverse  looking  up shows  the Dude  hurtling toward  us
out  of the inky  sky,  his eyes  wide with  horror.  Led by  
the bowling  ball, he zooms past the camera leaving us in
black.

We hear a distant rumble, like thunder.  Dull reflections
materialize in the darkness.  They are glints off the shiny
surface of an oncoming bowling ball.

We pull back to reveal that the blackness was the inside of
a ball return, and the gleaming bowling ball is being
regurgitated up at us, overtaking us.

The Dude looks up, up, up at the looming ball, its mass
rolling a huge shadow across his face.

The gleaming ball shows three dead black holes rolling toward
us --finger holes.

The largest--thumb--hole rolls directly over us, engulfing
us once again in black..

The black rolls away and we are spinning--spinning down a
bowling lane--our point of view that of someone trapped in
the thumbhole of the rolling ball.

We see the receding bowler spinning away.  It is the blonde
woman, performing her follow-through.

Floor spins up at us and then away; ceiling spins up and
away; the length of the alley with pins at the end; floor;
ceiling; approaching pins; again and again.

We hit the pins and clatter into blackness.  We hear pins
spin, hit each other and drop.

We hear an irritating, insistent beeping.

FADE IN

We are close on the Dude, upside down.  As the picture fades
in the bowling noises continue, but filtered and faint.  
They come from the Dude's Walkman, the headset of which is
now askew, with one arm off his ear.

As the Dude opens his eyes we spiral slowly upward to put
him right side around.  His head is now resting against
hardwood floor, not rug.

                                DUDE
                Oh man.

He  raises  himself  onto  his  elbows  and  massages  the  
red   lump  on his  jaw.  The  beeper  on his  belt is  
blinking red  in sync  with the continuing irritating beeps.

WIDE ON THE ROOM

An  end  table  is  upset,  but  otherwise the  furniture is  
in place. The rug is gone.

The  Dude  looks  around.    The  bowling sounds  continue.  
The beeps continue.

The phone starts to jangle.

TRACK

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

                                BRANDT
                They called about eighty minutes
                ago.  They want you to take the money
                and drive north on the 4 5.  They'll
                call you on the portable phone with
                instructions in about forty minutes.  
                One person only or I'd go with you.  
                They were very clear on that: one
                person only.  What happened to your
                jaw?

                                DUDE
                Oh, nothin', you know.

They have reached the little desk outside of the big
Lebowski's office; Brandt opens its bottom drawer with a key
and takes out an attache case.  He hands this to the Dude
along with a cellular phone in a battery-pack carrying case.

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

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.

                                BRANDT
                Her life is in your hands.

                                DUDE
                Oh, man, don't say that..

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

                                DUDE
                Shit.

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

DUDE'S CAR

We pan off the Dude, driving, to his point of view through
the front windshield.  The headlights play over Walter
standing waiting in front of the storefront of SOBCHAK
SECURITY.  Though he is wearing khaki shorts and shirt, the
fact that he holds a battered brown briefcase makes him look
oddly like a commuter.  He also holds an irregular shape
bundled in brown wrapping paper.

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

                                WALTER
                Take the ringer.  I'll drive.

The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.

                                DUDE
                The what?

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

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

                                DUDE
                What the hell is this?

                                WALTER
                My dirty undies.  Laundry, Dude.  
                The whites.

                                DUDE
                Agh--

He closes the briefcase.

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

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

                                DUDE
                Walter--what the fuck are you
                thinking?

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

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

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

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

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

                                DUDE '
                Yeah, but--

The phone chirps.  Dude grabs it.

                                DUDE
                Dude here.

                                VOICE
                        (German accent)
                Who is this?

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

                                VOICE
                ...Us?
                DUDE

Shit. . . Uh, yeah, you know, me and the driver.  I'm not
handling the money and driving the car and talking on the
phone all by my fucking--

                                VOICE
                Shut the fuck up.
                        (Beat)
                Hello?

                                DUDE
                Yeah?

                                VOICE
                Okay, listen--

Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:

                                WALTER
                Dude, are you fucking this up?

                                VOICE
                Who is that?

                                DUDE
                The driver man, I told you--

Click.  Dial tone.

                                DUDE
                Oh shit.  Walter.

                                WALTER
                What the fuck is going on there?

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

                                WALTER
                Easy, Dude.

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

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

The phone chirps.

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

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

                                WALTER
                        (patronizing)
                Okay Dude.  Have it your way.

The Dude unclips the phone from the battery pack.

                                WALTER
                But they're amateurs.

The Dude glares at Walter.  Into the phone:

                                DUDE
                Dude here.

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah.

                                VOICE
                So no funny stuff.  Okay?

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

A HIGHWAY SIGN:  SIMI VALLEY ROAD

It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.

                                DUDE
                That was the sign.

Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.

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

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

                                WALTER
                That's the simple part, Dude.  When  
                we make the handoff, I grab the guy
                and beat  it out of him.

He looks at the Dude.

                                WALTER
                ...Huh?

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

                                WALTER
                Thaaat's right, Dude.  The beauty of
                this is its simplicity. If the plan
                gets too complex something always
                goes wrong.  If there's one thing I
                learned in Nam--

The phone chirps.

                                DUDE
                Dude.

                                VOICE
                You are approaching a vooden britch.  
                When you cross it you srow ze bag
                from ze left vindow of ze moving
                kar.  Do not slow down.  Vee vatch
                you.

Click.  Dial tone.

                                DUDE
                FUCK.

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

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

                                WALTER
                Huh?

                                DUDE
                We throw the money out of the moving
                car!

Walter stares dumbly for a beat.

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

                                DUDE
                Well call them up and explain it to
                'em, Walter!  Your plan is so fucking
                simple, I'm sure they'd fucking
                understand it!  That's the beauty of
                it Walter!

                                WALTER
                Wooden bridge, huh?

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

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

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

                                WALTER
                Okay, Dude.  No time to argue.  Here's
                the bridge--

There is the bump and new steady of the car on the bridge.  
The Dude is twisting around to pull the money briefcase from
the back seat.  Walter reaches one arm across Dude's body to
grab the laundry.

And there goes the ringer.

He flings it out the window.

                                DUDE
                Walter!

                                WALTER
                Your wheel, Dude!  I'm rolling out!

                                DUDE
                What the fuck?

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

                                DUDE
                Uzi?

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

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

                                DUDE
                Walter, please--

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

                                WALTER
                Fifteen!  This is it, Dude!  Let's
                take that hill!

Walter rolls out with his parcel, giving a loud grunt as he
hits the pavement.  The car swerves and lurches and the Dude,
cursing, takes the wheel.

OUTSIDE

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

INSIDE THE CAR

The car rocks and the Dude wrestles with the wheel.

OUTSIDE

The car clunks and screams around in a skid.

INSIDE

The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something.

OUTSIDE

As the Dude struggles out holding the satchel of money. The
front of his car is crumpled into a tree.  The car body saps
back to the left, where the rear wheel has been shot out.

WALTER  is  just  rising  from  the  ground  massaging an  
injured knee.

The  Dude  runs  up  the  road  toward  the bridge,  
frantically waving the satchel in the air.

                                DUDE
                WE HAVE IT!  WE HAVE IT!!

There is a distant engine roar.  A motorcycle bumps up onto
the road from the ravine under the bridge and, tires
squealing, skids around to speed away in the opposite
direction.  It is closely followed by two more roaring
motorcycles.

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

The Dude and Walter stand in the middle of the road, watching
the three red tail lights fishtail away.

AFTER A LONG STARING SILENCE:

                                WALTER
                Ahh fuck it, let's go bowling.

BOWLING LANE

A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.

WALTER.

He turns from the lane to where the Dude sits in the nook of
molded plastic chairs.  The Dude listlessly holds the portable
phone in his lap.  It is ringing.

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

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

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

The portable phone stops ringing.

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

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

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

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

Donny is trotting excitedly up.

                                DONNY
                They posted the next round of the
                tournament--

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

                                DONNY
                This Saturday.  Quintana and--

                                WALTER
                Saturday!  Well they'll have to
                reschedule.

                                DUDE
                Walter, what'm I gonna tell Lebowski?

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

                                DUDE
                Walter--

                                DONNY
                Burkhalter.

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

                                DONNY
                It's already posted.

                                WALTER
                WELL THEY CAN FUCKING UN-POST IT!

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

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

                                DONNY
                How come you don't roll on Saturday,
                Walter?

                                WALTER
                I'm shomer shabbas.

                                DONNY
                What's that, Walter?

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

                                WALTER
                Saturday is shabbas.  Jewish day of
                rest.  Means I don't work, I don't
                drive a car, I don't fucking ride in
                a car, I don't handle money, I don't
                turn on the oven, and I sure as shit
                don't fucking roll!

                                DONNY
                Sheesh.

                                DUDE
                Walter, how--

                                WALTER
                Shomer shabbas.

The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.

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

                                WALTER
                For Christ's sake, Dude.

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

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

                                DONNY
                Oh yeah, how'd it go?

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

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

                                WALTER
                Yeah yeah, "kill that poor woman."

He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.

                                WALTER
                Kill that poor woman.

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

                                WALTER
                Really, Dude, you surprise me.  
                They're not gonna kill shit.  They're
                not gonna do shit.  What can they
                do?  Fuckin' amateurs.  And meanwhile,
                look at the bottom line.  Who's
                sitting on a million fucking dollars?  
                Am I wrong?

                                DUDE
                Walter--

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

                                DUDE
                "Our" car, Walter?

                                WALTER
                And what do they got, Dude?  My dirty
                undies.  My fucking whites--Say,
                where is  the car?

The three bowlers, stopped at the edge of the lot, stare out
at an empty parking space.

                                DONNY
                Who has your undies, Walter?

                                WALTER
                Where's your car, Dude?

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

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

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

                                WALTER
                Well, certainly that's a possibility,
                Dude--

                                DUDE
                Aw, fuck it.

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

                                DONNY
                Where you going, Dude?

                                DUDE
                I'm going home, Donny.

                                DONNY
                Your phone's ringing, Dude.

                                DUDE
                Thank you, Donny.

DUDE'S LIVING ROOM

The Dude is slumped disconsolately back in his easy chair,
fingers of one hand cupped over his sunglasses.  Facing him
on the couch are two uniformed policeman, one middle-aged,
the other a fresh-faced rookie.

At the cut the portable phone, in the Dude's lap, is chirping.  
The Dude waits for the rings to end.  When they do:

                                DUDE
                1972 Pontiac LeBaron.

                                YOUNGER COP
                Color?

                                DUDE
                Green.  Some brown, or, uh, rust,
                coloration.

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

DULLY:

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

                                YOUNGER COP
                In the briefcase?

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

                                YOUNGER COP
                And what do you do, sir?

                                DUDE
                I'm unemployed.

                                OLDER COP
                ...Most people, we're working nights,
                they offer us coffee.

There is silence.  Dude continues to stare at a spot on the
floor.  The older cop stares at him.

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

AT LENGTH:

                                DUDE
                ...Also, my rug was stolen.

                                YOUNGER COP
                Your rug was in the car.

The Dude taps the floor with his foot.

                                DUDE
                No.  Here.

                                YOUNGER COP
                Separate incidents?

The Dude stares at the floor.

Silence.

                                OLDER COP
                Snap out of it, son.

The home phone starts ringing--a ring distinct  from the  
chirp of the portable.  The Dude makes no move to answer  
it.   Finally the rings stop as an answering machine kicks
on.

                                DUDE
                You find them much?  Stolen cars?

Dude's Voice on Machine The Dude's not in.  Leave a message
after the beep.  It takes a minute.

                                YOUNGER COP
                Sometimes.  I wouldn't hold out much
                hope for the tape deck though.  Or
                the Creedence tapes.

                                DUDE
                And the, uh, the briefcase?

Beep.

                                FEMALE VOICE ON MACHINE
                Mr. Lebowski, I'd like to see you.  
                Call when you get home and I'll send
                a car for you.  My name is Maude
                Lebowski.  I'm the woman who took
                the rug.

Beep.  Dial tone.

                                OLDER COP
                Well, I guess we can close the file
                on that one.

TRACKING FORWARD

We are moving through the open living area of a large downtown
L.A. loft.  A huge unfinished canvas,  lit by  standing
industrial lights, dominates one wall.  The furnishings  are
spare  given the space.  On the floor is the Dude's brilliant
rug.

We hear a rumble like an approaching bowling ball.  The Dude,
standing in the middle of the loft, looks into the murky
depths of the cavernous space.

Something huge and white hurtles towards the Dude's head.  
As it roars overhead he ducks, and spins to watch it pass.

We see the backside of a naked woman in a sling suspended
from a ceiling track rumbling over a canvas that lies on the
floor.  She is holding a paint bucket in one hand and a brush
in the other, with which she flicks paint down at the canvas.

The Dude turns again as he hears running footsteps.  Two
young men in paint-spattered shorts, T-shirts and sneakers
reach the sling shortly after it reaches the end of its track
and haul it back for another push.

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

She rumbles by in another pass.

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

The  two  men  help Maude  out of  her sling.   She  is naked  
except for leather  harness  straps  which  ring  her  breasts  
and wrap  her thighs and give her something of a dominatrix
look.

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

                                DUDE
                Is that what that's a picture of?

                                MAUDE
                In a sense, yes.  Elfranco, my robe.
                My art has been commended as being
                strongly vaginal.  Which bothers
                some men.  The word itself makes
                some men uncomfortable.  Vagina.

                                DUDE
                Oh yeah?

                                MAUDE
                Yes, they don't like hearing it and
                find it difficult to say.  Whereas
                without batting an eye a man will
                refer to his "dick" or his "rod" or
                his "Johnson".

                                DUDE
                "Johnson"?

                                MAUDE
                Thank you.

This to Elfranco, who has handed her a robe.

All right, Mr. Lebowski, let's get down to cases.  My father
told me he's agreed to let you have the rug, but it was a
gift from me to my late mother, and so was not his to give.  
Now.  As for this. . . "kidnapping"--

                                DUDE
                Huh?

                                MAUDE
                Yes, I know about it.  And I know
                that you acted as courier.  And let
                me tell you something:  the whole
                thing stinks to high heaven.

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

                                MAUDE
                Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?

                                DUDE
                Excuse me?

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

                                DUDE
                I was talking about my rug.

                                MAUDE
                You're not interested in sex?

                                DUDE
                You mean coitus?

                                MAUDE
                I like it too.  It's a male myth
                about feminists that we hate sex.  
                It can be a natural, zesty enterprise.
                But unfortunately there are some
                people--it is called satyriasis in
                men, nymphomania in women--who engage
                in it compulsively and without joy.

                                DUDE
                Oh, no.

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

                                DUDE
                Listen, Maude, I'm sorry if your
                stepmother is a nympho, but I don't
                see what it has to do with--do you
                have any kalhua?

                                MAUDE
                Take a look at this, sir.

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

JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

SECOND CARD:

KARL HUNGUS

AND

BUNNY LAJOYA

IN

A THIRD CARD:

LOGJAMMIN'

The Dude is at the bar, a bottle of kalhua frozen halfway  
to his glass.

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

On the TV screen the door opens to reveal a sallow-faced  
man in blue coyer-alls.  It is Dieter, the floater in  
Lebowski's pool.

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

                                DUDE
                Shit, I know that guy.  He's a
                nihilist.

                                MAUDE
                And you recognize her, of course.

The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.

Bunny The TV is in here.

                                DIETER
                Za, okay, I bring mein toolz.

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

                                MAUDE
                        (grimly)
                The story is ludicrous.

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

Maude switches off the set.

                                MAUDE
                Lord.  You can imagine where it goes
                from here.

                                DUDE
                He fixes the cable?

                                MAUDE
                Don't be fatuous, Jeffrey.  Little
                matter to me that this woman chose
                to pursue a career

in pornography, nor that she has been "banging" Jackie
Treehorn, to use the parlance of our times.  However.  I am
one of two trustees of the Lebowski Foundation, the other
being my father.  The Foundation takes youngsters from Watts
and--

                                DUDE
                Shit yeah, the achievers.

                                MAUDE
                Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,
                yes, and proud we are of all of them.  
                I asked my father about his withdrawal
                of a million dollars from the
                Foundation account and he told me
                about this "abduction", but I tell
                you it is preposterous.  This
                compulsive

fornicator is taking my father for the proverbial ride.

                                DUDE
                Yeah, but my-

                                MAUDE
                I'm getting to your rug. My  father
                and I don't get along; he doesn't
                approve of my lifestyle and, needless
                to say, I don't approve of his.  
                Still, I hardly wish to make my
                father's embezzlement a police matter,
                so I'm proposing that you try to
                recover the money from the people
                you delivered it to.

                                DUDE
                Well--sure, I could do that--

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

                                DUDE
                A hundred.

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah, but what about--

                                MAUDE
                --your rug, yes, well with that money
                you can buy any number of rugs that
                don't have sentimental value for me.  
                And I am sorry about that crack on
                the jaw.

The Dude fingers his jaw, where the lump from the sap has
all but disappeared.

                                DUDE
                Oh that's okay, I hardly even--

                                MAUDE
                Here's the name and number of a doctor
                who will look at it for you.  You
                will receive no bill.  He's a good
                man, and thorough.

                                DUDE
                That's really thoughtful but I--

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

LIMO

The Dude sits in back holding a White Russian,  listening to
the chauffeur, a man of about the same age from whose livery
cap a ponytail emerges.

                                DRIVER
                --So he says, "My son can't hold a
                job, my daughter's married to a
                fuckin' loser, and I got a rash on
                my ass so bad I can't hardly siddown.  
                But you know me.  I can't complain."

THROUGH RASPING LAUGHTER:

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

He takes a sip of a freshly-mixed White Russian, which leaves
milk on his mustache.

I was feeling really shitty earlier in the day, I'd lost  a
little  money, I  was down in the dumps.

                                TONY
                Aw, forget about it.

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

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

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

                                DUDE
                Huh?

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

He followed us here.

The Dude turns to look.

HIS POV

Halfway up the block a Volkswagon bug has pulled over to the
curb.  In the driver's seat we see a fat man's shape.

THE DUDE

He scowls.

                                DUDE
                When did he-

The Dude is grabbed from behind and muscled away in a half-
nelson by another uniformed chauffeur.

                                SECOND CHAUFFEUR
                Into the limo, you sonofabitch.  No
                arguments.

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

                                DUDE
                Fuck, man!  There's a beverage here!

The waiting limo's back door is flung open.

INSIDE

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                Start talking and talk fast you lousy
                bum!

                                BRANDT
                We've been frantically trying to
                reach you, Dude.

Brandt sits catty-corner from the Dude; directly across from
the Dude is the big Lebowski, a comforter across his knees.

                                LEBOWSKI
                Where's my goddamn money, you bum?!

                                DUDE
                Well we--I don't--

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

                                BRANDT
                This is our concern, Dude.

                                DUDE
                No, man, nothing is fucked here--

                                LEBOWSKI
                NOTHING IS FUCKED! THE GODDAMN PLANE
                HAS CRASHED INTO THE MOUNTAIN!

The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                WHAT?!

                                DUDE
                I--the royal we, you know, the
                editorial--I dropped off the money,
                exactly as per--Look, I've got certain
                information, certain things have
                come to light, and uh, has it ever
                occurred to you, man, that given the
                nature of all this new shit, that,
                uh, instead of running around blaming
                me, that this whole thing might just
                be, not, you know, not just such a
                simple, but uh--you know?

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

                                DUDE
                I'll tell you what I'm blathering
                about!  I got information--new shit
                has come to light and--shit, man!  
                She kidnapped herself!

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

                                DUDE
                Well sure, look at it!  Young trophy
                wife, I mean, in the parlance of our
                times, owes money all over town,
                including to known pornographers--
                and that's cool, that's cool-- but
                I'm saying, she needs money, and of
                course they're gonna say they didn't
                get it 'cause she wants more, man,
                she's gotta feed the monkey, I mean--
                hasn't that ever occurred to you...?  
                Sir?

                                LEBOWSKI
                        (quietly)
                No.  No Mr. Lebowski, that had not
                occurred to me.

                                BRANDT
                That had not occurred to us, Dude.

                                DUDE
                Well, okay, you're not privy to all
                the new shit, so uh, you know, but
                that's what you pay me for.  Speaking
                of which, would it be possible for
                me to get my twenty grand in cash?  
                I gotta check this with my accountant
                of course, but my concern is that,
                you know, it could bump me into a
                higher tax--

                                LEBOWSKI
                Brandt, give him the envelope.

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

                                BRANDT
                We received it this morning.

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                Since you have failed to achieve,
                even in the modest task that was
                your charge, since you have stolen
                my money, and since you have
                unrepentantly betrayed my trust.

The wadding, undone, reveals a smaller wad of gauze taped up
inside.  The Dude undoes the tape with his fingernails and
starts to unroll the inner package.

                                LEBOWSKI
                I have no choice but to tell these
                bums that they should do whatever is
                necessary to recover their money
                from you, Jeffrey Lebowski.  And
                with Brandt as my witness, tell you
                this:  Any further harm visited upon
                Bunny, shall be visited tenfold upon
                your head.

Between thumb and forefinger the Dude holds up the contents
of the package--a little toe, with emerald green nail polish.

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

COFFEE SHOP

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

AFTER A LONG BEAT:

                                WALTER
                That wasn't her toe.

                                DUDE
                Whose toe was it, Walter?

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

                                DUDE
                The nail polish, Walter.

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

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

                                WALTER
                You want a toe?  I can get you a
                toe, believe me.  There are ways,
                Dude.  You don't wanna know about
                it, believe me.

                                DUDE
                But Walter--

                                WALTER
                I'll  get  you  a  toe by  this
                afternoon--with nail  polish. These  
                fucking amateurs.   They send us a  
                toe, we're  supposed to  shit our-
                selves with fear.  Jesus Christ. My  
                point is--

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

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

                                DUDE
                What about the toe?

                                WALTER
                FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!

A waitress enters.

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

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

                                DUDE
                Walter, this isn't a First Amendment
                thing.

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

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

THE DUDE GETS UP:

                                DUDE
                All right, I'm leaving.  I'm sorry
                ma'am.

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

The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:

                                WALTER
                Our basic freedoms!

He looks defiantly around.

                                WALTER
                I'm staying.  Finishing my coffee.

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

                                WALTER
                Finishing my coffee.

DUDE'S BATHROOM

A dripping noise.

The Dude sits in the bathtub, staring stuporously, a joint
pinched in one hand, a washcloth draped over his head.

We hear the phone ringing in the other roam.

The Dude is staring at his toes, which protrude from the
soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.

After the Dude's outgoing message we hear:

                                VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
                Mr. Lebowski, this is Duty Officer
                Rolvaag of the L.A.P.D.

The Dude looks stuporously up, his head swaying.

                                VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
                We've recovered your vehicle.  It
                can be claimed at the North Hollywood
                Auto Circus there on Victory.

                                DUDE
                Far out.  Far fuckin' out.

                                MESSAGE
                You'll just need to present a--

The message is interrupted by loud smashing sounds, as of
someone applying a baseball bat to the answering machine.

                                DUDE
                Hunh?

He looks blearily at the open doorway.

A tall man dressed in black leather with a cricket paddle is
striding across the living room towards the bathroom.

                                DUDE
                Hey!  This is a private residence,
                man!

The man has entered the bathroom and, in stride, swings the
cricket paddle up to smash the overhead light.  Two other
men are entering behind him.

The room is dark now except for spill from the living room;
the men are backlit shapes.

One of them holds a string at the other end of which a small
animal skitters excitedly about the floor.

The Dude looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.

                                DUDE
                Nice marmot.

The man with the string scoops up the marmot and tosses it,
screaming, into the bathtub.

The Dude screams.

The marmot splashes frantically, biting at the Dude in a
frenzy of fearful aggression.

                                FIRST MAN
                Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

The Dude, screaming, grabs the lip of the tub and starts to
hoist himself up but the first man lays a palm on top of his
head and squishes him back into the water.

                                SECOND MAN
                You think veer kidding und making
                mit de funny stuff?

                                THIRD MAN
                Vee could do things you only dreamed
                of, Lebowski.

                                SECOND MAN
                Ja, vee could really do it, Lebowski.  
                Vee belief in nossing.

He scoops the marmot out of the water.  It shakes itself
off, spraying the Dude.

                                DUDE
                Jesus!

                                DIETER
                Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!  
                NOSSING!!

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

                                DUDE
                Jesus Christ!

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

                                DUDE
                Excuse me?

                                FIRST MAN
                I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON!

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

                                SECOND MAN
                Just sink about zat, Lebowski.

                                FIRST MAN
                Ja, your viggly penis, Lebowski.

                                SECOND MAN
                Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und
                skvush it, Lebowski!

NORTH HOLLYWOOD AUTO CIRCUS

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

                                POLICEMAN
                You're lucky she wasn't chopped, Mr.  
                Lebowski. Must've been a joyride
                situation; they abandoned the car
                once they hit the retaining wall.

They have reached the Dude's car.  The  driver's side  
exterior has been scraped raw.  The policeman hands the Dude  
a door  handle and an exterior rear-view mirror.

                                POLICEMAN
                These were on the road next to the
                car.  You'll have to get in on the
                other side.

The Dude climbs in the passenger side.

                                DUDE
                My fucking briefcase!  It's not here!

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

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

                                POLICEMAN
                Uh, yeah.  Probably a vagrant, slept
                in the car.  Or perhaps just used it
                as a toilet, and moved on.

The Dude tries to roll down the driver's window but it will
not go; he bellows through the glass:

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

The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.

                                POLICEMAN
                Leads, yeah.  I'll just check with
                the boys down at the Crime Lab.  
                They've assigned four more detectives
                to the case, got us working in shifts.

The Dude looks sadly through his window at the policeman
rocking back on his heels, his raucous laughter muffled by
the glass.

BOWLING ALLEY BAR

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

                                DONNY
                And then they're gonna stamp on it?!

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

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

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

                                DUDE
                Thanks Walter.

                                WALTER
                Not if I have anything to say about
                it.

                                DUDE
                        (bitterly)
                Yeah, thanks Walter.  That gives me
                a very secure feeling.

                                WALTER
                Dude--

                                DUDE
                That makes me feel all warm inside.

                                WALTER
                Now Dude--

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

Walter sadly shakes his head.

                                WALTER
                Fucking Germans.  Nothing changes.  
                Fucking Nazis.

                                DONNY
                They were Nazis, Dude?

                                WALTER
                Come on, Donny, they were threatening
                castration!

                                DONNY
                Uh-huh.

                                WALTER
                Are you gonna split hairs?

                                DONNY
                No--

                                WALTER
                Am I wrong?

                                DONNY
                Well--

                                DUDE
                They're nihilists.

                                WALTER
                Huh?

                                DUDE
                They kept saying they believe in
                nothing.

                                WALTER
                Nihilists!  Jesus.

Walter looks haunted.

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah.

                                WALTER
                And let's also not forget--let's not
                forget, Dude--that keeping wildlife,
                an amphibious rodent, for uh,
                domestic, you know, within the city--
                that isn't legal either.

                                DUDE
                What're you, a fucking park ranger
                now?

                                WALTER
                No, I'm--

                                DUDE
                Who gives a shit about the fucking
                marmot!

                                WALTER
                --We're sympathizing here, Dude--

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

                                DONNY
                What do you need that for, Dude?

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

                                DUDE
                Fuck the tournament!  Fuck you,
                Walter!

There is a moment of stunned silence.

                                WALTER
                Fuck the tournament?!

SAD; QUIET:

                                WALTER
                Okay Dude.  I can see you don't want
                to be cheered up.  C'mon Donny, let's
                go get a lane.

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

DOWN INTO HIS EMPTY GLASS:

                                DUDE
                Another Caucasian, Gary.

                                VOICE
                Right, Dude.

STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:

                                DUDE
                Friends like these, huh Gary.

                                GARY
                That's right, Dude.

The pop song on the jukebox has ended; someone puts on
"Tumbling Tumbleweeds."

A man saunters up to the bar to take the stool that Walter
vacated.  He is middle-aged, amiable, craggily handsome--Sam
Elliot, perhaps.  He has a large Western-style mustache and
wears denims, a yoked shirt and a cowboy hat.

TO THE BARTENDER:

                                MAN
                D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?

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

                                BARTENDER
                Sioux City Sarsaparilla.

The Stranger nods.

                                THE STRANGER
                That's a good one.

Waiting for his drink, he looks amiably around the bar.  His
crinkled eyes settle on the Dude.

                                THE STRANGER
                How ya doin' there, Dude?

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

                                DUDE
                Ahh, not so good, man.

                                THE STRANGER
                One a those days, huh.  Wal, a wiser
                fella than m'self once said, sometimes
                you eat the bar and sometimes the
                bar, wal, he eats you.

                                DUDE
                        (absently)
                Uh-huh.  That some kind of Eastern
                thing?

                                THE STRANGER
                Far from it.

                                DUDE
                Mm.

The bartender puts a brown bottle and a frosted glass on the
bar in front of The Stranger, who touches his hat brim.

                                THE STRANGER
                Much obliged.

He looks back at the Dude.

                                THE STRANGER
                I like your style, Dude.

THE DUDE LOOKS UP, ABSENTLY:

                                DUDE
                Well I like your style too, man.  
                Got a whole cowboy thing goin'.

                                THE STRANGER
                Thankie. . . Just one thing, Dude.  
                D'ya have to use s'many cuss words?

The Dude looks at The Stranger as if just now noticing how
out of place the cowpoke is.

                                DUDE
                The fuck are you talking about?

The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the
bar.

                                THE STRANGER
                Okay, have it your way.

He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.

                                THE STRANGER
                Take it easy, Dude.

                                DUDE
                Yeah.  Thanks man.

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

                                VOICE
                Dude!  Dude!

THE DUDE LOOKS:

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

MAUDE'S LOFT

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

                                MAUDE
                Jeffrey, you haven't gone to the
                doctor.

                                DUDE
                No it's fine, really, uh--

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

                                DUDE
                I, uh... money, yeah, I gotta
                respecfully, 69 you know, tender my
                resignation on that matter, 'cause
                it looks like your mother really was
                kidnapped after all.

                                MAUDE
                She most certainly was not!

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

                                MAUDE
                And please don't call her my mother.

                                DUDE
                Now I got--

                                MAUDE
                She is most definitely the perpetrator
                and not the victim.

                                DUDE
                I'm telling you, I got definitive
                evidence--

                                MAUDE
                From who?

                                DUDE
                The main guy, Dieter--

                                MAUDE
                Dieter Hauff?

                                DUDE
                Well--yeah, I guess--

                                MAUDE
                Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?

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

                                MAUDE
                Dieter has been on the fringes of--
                well, of everything in L.A., for
                about twenty years.  Look at my LP's.  
                Under 'Autobahn.'

The Dude fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.

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

The Dude stops between two albums.

                                DUDE
                Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.

                                MAUDE
                Huh?  Autobahn.  A-u-t-o.  Their
                music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop.

The Dude pulls out an album with a worn sleeve.  On it is
the group's name, Autobahn, the album name, Nagelbett, and a
picture

OF THREE YOUNG GERMANS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW
SLICKED-

back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany.  They are
wearing severe but modishly retro suits.  Each has his name
under his picture--Dieter, Kieffer; and Franz.  A bed of
nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.

                                DUDE
                Jeez.  I miss vinyl.

                                MAUDE
                Is he pretending to be the abductor?

                                DUDE
                Well...yeah--

                                MAUDE
                Look, Jeffrey, you don't really  
                kidnap someone that you're acquainted
                with.  You can't get away with it if
                the hostage knows who you are.

                                DUDE
                Well yeah...I know that.

                                MAUDE
                So Dieter has the money?

                                DUDE
                Well, no, not exactly.  It's a
                complicated case, Maude.  Lotta ins.  
                Lotta outs.  And a lotta strands to
                keep in my head, man.  Lotta strands
                in old Duder's--

                                MAUDE
                Do you still have that doctor's
                number?

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

She is scribbling.

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

                                DUDE
                Delayed after-eff--

                                MAUDE
                I want you to see him immediately.

She is picking up a telephone.

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

CLOSE SHOT   THE DUDE

His eyes are closed, a headset on, his shirt off.  Leaking
tinnily through the headset we hear the opening bars of
"Comin' Up Around the Bend."

Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his torso,
a white-smocked figure taps at the Dude's back.  After a
moment the figure circles to one side, out of frame.  His
hand reaches in to pull one arm of the headset away from the
Dude's ear, and as he does so the music issues more strongly.

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

The Dude's eyes open.

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

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

DUDE'S CAR

The Dude is driving home.  A Creedence tape plays.  The Dude
is sucking down a joint.  He glances at the rear-view mirror--
and, noticing something, looks again.

HIS POV

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

THE DUDE

His eyes still on the mirror, he absently takes the joint
between thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicks it
out the driver's window--except that the window is not open.  
The butt bounces off the glass and around the car, showering
sparks.

DUDE'S CROTCH

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

THE STREET

The car careens wildly as the surrounding traffic veers off
to, make way, horns blaring.  The car finally spins and comes
to rest with its passenger side wrapped into a telephone
poll.

INSIDE THE CAR

The Dude frantically grabs at his door, which won't open,
and then slides over to push at the passenger door, which
also won't open.

                                DUDE
                Fuck Me.

But he is sitting on the passenger  side now,  away from  
the lit butt.  He looks around for it.

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

                                DUDE
                Fuckola, man.

He takes his beer and pours it in between the cushions.  
There is a hissing  sound.   But there is a piece of paper
sticking out from between the cushions.

The Dude pulls it out.

It is lined spiral notebook paper, slightly singed and
dripping beer, covered with handwriting.  In the upper right-
hand corner is the name Lawrence Sellers, and under that,
Mrs. Jamtoss 5th Period.  The theme is titled "The Louisiana
Purchase."  In red ink is a large circled D and some
handwritten marginal comments; misspelled words are circled
in red throughout.

CRANE JACKSON'S FOUNTAIN STREET THEATER

We are behind Walter, the Dude, and Donny, facing the stage
in the background where Allan, the Dude's balding landlord,
is performing a dance moderne.

As Walter talks to the Dude he leans in to him, his voice
hushed, so as not to disturb the rest of the very sparse
audience.

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

                                DUDE
                The In-and-Out Burger is on Camrose.

                                WALTER
                Near the In-and-Out Burger--

                                DONNY
                Those are good burgers, Walter.

                                WALTER
                Shut the fuck up, Donny.  This kid
                is in the ninth grade, Dude, and his
                father is--are you ready for this?--
                Arthur Digby Sellers.

                                DUDE
                Who the fuck is that?

                                WALTER
                Huh?

                                DUDE
                Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah.

                                WALTER
                All but one man died?  There at Bitter
                Creek?

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

                                WALTER
                Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote
                156 episodes, Dude.

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.

                                WALTER
                The bulk of the series.

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.

                                WALTER
                Not exactly a lightweight.

                                DUDE
                No.

                                WALTER
                And yet his son is a fucking dunce.

                                DUDE
                Uh.

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

He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.

                                WALTER
                What have you.  We'll, uh--

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

                                WALTER
                Shut the fuck up, Donny.  We'll, uh,
                brace the kid--he'll be a pushover.  
                We'll get that fucking money, if he
                hasn't spent it already.  Million
                fucking clams. And yes, we'll be
                near the, uh--some burgers, some
                beers, a few laughs.  Our fucking
                troubles are over, Dude.

RESIDENTIAL AREA

The Dude and Walter are pulling up in front of a dilapidated
house sitting on a scrubby lot.  Parked incongruously in
front of the house is a brand new red Corvette.

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

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

THE FRONT DOOR

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

                                WOMAN
                Jace?

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

                                WOMAN
                Jace.

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

                                WOMAN
                Jace.

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

CALLS UP THE STAIRS:

                                PILAR
                Larry!  Sweetie!  Dat mang is here!

There is a rhythmic compressor sound; Walter places it and
nudges the Dude.  At the other end of the living room a man
lies on something that looks like a hospital gurney with its
midsection enclosed by a motorized stainless-steel bubble.  
It is an iron lung, artificially breathing with distinct
hisses in and out.

                                WALTER
                That's him, Dude.

                                VIVA VOCE
                And a good day to you, sir.

                                PILAR
                See down, please.

                                WALTER
                Thank you, ma'am.

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

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

                                PILAR
                No, no.  He has healt' problems.

                                WALTER
                Uh-huh.

HE BELLOWS ACROSS THE ROOM:

                                WALTER
                I just want to say, sir, that we're
                both enormous--on a personal level,
                Branded, especially the early
                episodes, has been a source of, uh,
                inspir---

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

                                PILAR
                See down, Sweetie.  These are the
                policeman--

                                WALTER
                No ma'am, I didn't mean to give the
                impression that we're police exactly.  
                We're hoping that it will not be
                necessary to call the police.

He adopts his command voice in turning to Larry:

                                WALTER
                But that is up to little Larry here.  
                Isn't it, Larry?

Walter pops the latches on his attache case and takes out
the homework, which is now in a ziploc bag.  He holds it out
at arm's length, displaying it to Larry.

                                WALTER
                Is this your homework, Larry?

Larry does not respond.

                                WALTER
                Is this your homework, Larry?

                                DUDE
                Look, man, did you--

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

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

Walter is still holding out the homework.

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

                                DUDE
                Is the car out front yours?

                                WALTER
                Is this your homework, Larry?

                                DUDE
                We know it's his fucking homework,
                Walter!  Where's the fucking money,
                you little brat?

Throughout Walter has been staring at Larry with the homework
extended towards him.

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

                                DUDE
                Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter!

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

                                DUDE
                And the fucking money!

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

No answer.

                                WALTER
                You're gonna KILL your FATHER, Larry!.

FINALLY, IN DISGUST:

                                WALTER
                Ah, this is pointless.

As he shoves the homework back in the attache case:

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

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

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

OUTSIDE

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

                                WALTER
                Fucking language problem, Dude.

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

                                WALTER
                Maybe he'll understand this.

He is walking over to the Corvette.

                                WALTER
                YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

CRASH!  He swings the crowbar into the windshield, which
shatters.

                                WALTER
                YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!

CRASH!  He takes out the driver's window.

                                WALTER
                THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK A
                STRANGER IN THE ASS!

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

                                WALTER
                HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

CRASH!

                                WALTER
                HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS!  FUCK A STRANGER
                IN THE ASS!

CRASH!

A man in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts has run over
behind Walter and grabbed him from behind on a backswing of
the crowbar.

                                MAN
                WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?!

He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.

                                MAN
                I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!

Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.

                                WALTER
                Hunh?

The man looks about, wildly.

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

He runs over to the Dude's car.

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

CRASH!  CRASH!

                                MAN
                I FUCKEEN KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

CRASH!

                                MAN
                I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

INSIDE THE CAR

Glass rains in on a terrified, cringing, Donny.

                                MAN
                I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

                                          ON A DEAFENING CRASH WE CUT TO:

THE DUDE'S CAR

We are looking into the car through the broken windshield as
it rattles down the freeway.  Wind whistles through the caved-
in windows.

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

road.  Walter, beside him, and Donny in the back seat, munch
'on In-and-Out Burgers.

Creedence music plays above the bluster of wind.

DUDE'S BUNGALOW

As the Dude talks on the phone he is hammering a two-by-four
into the floor just inside, and parallel to, the front door.

                                DUDE
                I accept your apology. . . No I, I
                just want to handle it myself from
                now on. . . No.  That has nothing to
                do with it. . . .Yes, it made it
                home, I'm calling from home.  No,
                Walter, it didn't look like Larry
                was about to crack.

He finishes hammering, rises and grabs a straightbacked chair
that stands nearby.

                                DUDE
                Well that's your perception. . .
                Well you're right, Walter, and the
                unspoken Message is FUCK YOU AND
                LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. . . Yeah,
                I'll be at practice.

He hangs up and has just finished sliding the chair into
place with its top under the doorknob and its legs braced
against the two-by-four, thus wedging the door closed, when
the door is opened--outwards.  The chair clatters to the
floor.

                                DUDE
                Huh?

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

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

                                BLOND MAN
                And we know which Lebowski you are,
                Lebowski.

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

                                BLOND MAN
                You're not dealing with morons here.

BLACKNESS

Out of the blackness something is falling toward us.  It is
a woman, falling in slow motion, her limbs flailing, her
mouth contorted by either fear or ecstasy.  She is topless.  
She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a
beat reappears, rising into the night sky.

MALIBU BEACH

A crowd of mostly tanned middle-aged men with blow-dried
hair, wearing jogging outfits and other expensively casual
attire, are blanket-tossing the squealing young woman in
nightmarish slow motion.

WIDER

It is a party, lit by festive beach lights and standing
kerosene heaters.  1960's mainstream jazz, of the Mancini-
Brubeck school, has been piped down to speakers on the beach'.

In long shot now the woman rises, squealing, disappears  
into darkness, descends into light, rises again.

A man walks towards the camera through the pools of beach
light.  He is handsome, fiftyish, wearing cotton twill pants
and a Turnbull & Asher shirt with a foulard knotted at the
neck.  Behind him, the woman rises and falls, appears and
disappears.

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

INSIDE THE BEACH HOUSE

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

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

                                TREEHORN
                What's your drink, Dude?

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

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

                                DUDE
                Which one was Logjammin'?

                                TREEHORN
                Regrettably, it's true, standards
                have fallen in adult entertainment.  
                It's video, Dude.  Now that we're
                competing with the amateurs, we can't
                afford to invest that little extra
                in story, production value, feeling.

He taps his forehead with one finger.

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

                                DUDE
                On you, maybe.

He hands him the drink.

                                TREEHORN
                Of course, you do get the good with
                the bad.  The new technology permits
                us to do exciting things with
                interactive erotic software.  Wave
                of the future, Dude.  100% electronic.

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.  Well, I still jerk off
                manually.

                                TREEHORN
                Of course you do.  I can see you're
                anxious for me to get to the point.  
                Well Dude, here it is.  Where's Bunny?

                                DUDE
                I thought you might know, man.

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

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

Treehorn waves this off.

                                TREEHORN
                I've heard the kidnapping story, so
                save it.  I know you're mixed up in
                all this, Dude, and I don't care
                what you're trying to take off her
                husband.  That's your business.  All
                I'm saying is, I want mine.

                                DUDE
                Yeah, well, right man, there are
                many facets to this, uh, you know,
                many interested parties.  If I can
                find your money, man-- what's in it
                for the Dude?

                                TREEHORN
                Of course, there's that to discuss.  
                Refill?

                                DUDE
                Does the Pope shit in the woods?

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

                                DUDE
                Okay, Jackie, done.  I like the way
                you do business.  Your money is being
                held by a kid named Larry Sellers.  
                He lives in North Hollywood, on
                Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger.  
                A real fuckin' brat, but I'm sure
                your goons'll be able to get it off
                him, mean he's only fifteen and he's
                flunking social studies.  So if you'll
                just write me a check for my ten per
                cent. . . of half a million. . .
                fifty grand.

He is getting to his feet, but sways woozily.

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

The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus.

                                TREEHORN
                A fifteen-year-old?  Is this your
                idea of a joke?

Jackie Treehorn's image starts to swim.  He is joined on
either side by Woo and the blond man, all three men looking
grimly down at the Dude.

                                DUDE
                No funny stuff, Jackie. . . the kid's
                got it.  Hiya, fellas. . . kid just
                wanted a car.  All the Dude ever
                wanted. . . was his rug back. . .
                not greedy. . . it really.

He squints at Jackie Treehorn, who swims in and out of focus.  
Tied the room together.

He tips forward, spilling his drink off the table.

FROM UNDER THE GLASS COFFEE TABLE

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

FAST FADE OUT

BLACK

                                THE STRANGER'S VOICE
                Darkness warshed over the Dude--
                darker'n a black steer's tookus on a
                moonless prairie night.  There was
                no bottom.

We hear a thundering bass.

SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:

JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

ANOTHER TITLE CARD:

THE DUDE

AND

MAUDE LEBOWSKI

IN

THIRD TITLE CARD:

GUTTERBALLS

The title logo is a suggestively upright bowling pin flanked
by a pair of  bowling balls.   The  bending bass sound turns  
into the lead-in to Kenny Rogers and the First Edition's  
"Just Dropped In."

The Dude is walking down a long corridor dressed as a cable
repairman.  The Dude's face is washed with a brilliant light
as the corridor opens onto a gleaming bowling alley.

In the center of the alley stands Maude Lebowski, singing
operatic harmony to the Kenny Rogers song.  She wears an
armored breastplate and Norse headgear, has braided pigtails,
and holds a trident.

The Dude stands behind her and, pressed up against her, helps
her with her follow-through as she releases a bowling ball.

The lane is straddled by a line of chorines in spangly mini-
skirts, their arms akimbo, Busby-Berkley style, their legs
turning the lane into a tunnel leading to the pins at the
end.

But it is no longer a bowling ball rolling between their
legs--it is the Dude himself, levitating inches off the lane,
the tools from his utility belt swinging free.  He is face
down, his arms, torpedolike, pressed against his sides.

His point of view shows the lane rushing by below, the little
ball-guide arrows zipping by.

The Dude twists his body around, performing a barrel-roll so
that he is now gliding along the lane face-up.

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

The Dude smiles dreamily and does a backstroke motion so
that he is once again gliding face-down.  He looks forward
and his forward momentum blows back his hair.

Coming at us, as we go through the last few pairs of legs,
are the approaching pins.  We hit the pins, scattering them,  
and rush on into black.

A body drops down into the blackness in slow motion--a topless
woman, squealing, her legs kicking.

As she drops out of frame, leaving blackness again, three
men are entering from the background, emerging into a pool
of light.  It is the Germans, advancing ominously, wielding
oversized shears which they menacingly scissor.

The Dude, now standing in a field of black, reacts to the
advancing Germans.  He turns and runs, fists pumping.

The scissoring sound of the shears turns into the whoosh of
car-bys.  The field of black is punctured by headlights.  
The Dude is running blearily down the middle of the Pacific
Coast Highway. Cars rush by on either side, horns blaring.

With the BLOO-WHUP of a short siren blast, a squad car with
flashing gumballs pulls up.

SQUAD CAR

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

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

CHIEF'S OFFICE

The Dude is hurled against the chief's desk, which he bounces
off of, to come to rest more or less seated in a facing chair.

His wallet is tossed onto the desk.

The chief leans forward, takes the wallet and sorts through
it with disgusted incredulity.

                                CHIEF
                This is your only I.D.?

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

                                CHIEF
                You don't know shit, Lebowski.

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

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

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.

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

                                DUDE
                That guy treats women like objects,
                man.

                                CHIEF
                Mr. Treehorn draws a lot of water in
                this town, Lebowski.  You don't draw
                shit.  We got a nice quiet beach
                community here, and I aim to keep it
                nice and quiet.  So let me make
                something plain.  I don't like you
                sucking around bothering our citizens,
                Lebowski.  I don't like your jerk-
                off name, I don't like your jerk-off
                face, I don't like your jerk- off
                behavior, and I don't like you, jerk-
                off --do I make myself clear?

The Dude stares.

                                DUDE
                I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.

The Chief hurls his steaming mug of coffee at the Dude.  It
hits him in the forehead with a thud, the scalding coffee
splashing everywhere.

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

                                DUDE
                --Ow!  Fucking fascist!

The Chief slaps him twice.

                                CHIEF
                Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!

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

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

CAB

The Dude, in the back seat of a taxicab that rocks and squeaks
with every bump, is gingerly touching at sore spots on his
face and scalp.

"Peaceful Easy Feeling" is on the radio.

DUDE'S POV

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

                                DUDE
                Jesus, man, can you change the
                station?

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

                                DUDE
                I've had a--

                                DRIVER
                I pull over and kick your ass out,
                man!

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

                                DRIVER
                That's it!  Outta this fucking cab!

THE STREET

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

INSIDE THE OTHER CAR

It is a red convertible.  The driver, singing loudly and
badly along with the radio, her hair blowing in the wind, a
dreamy smile on her face as she speeds along, higher than a
kite, is Bunny Lebowski.

THE FOOTWELL

On the accelerator her right foot, in an open-toed bright
red high-heeled shoe, has five painted toes.

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

Five more toes.

DUDE'S BUNGALOW

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

                                DUDE
                Jesus.

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

Quiet.

The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.

The Dude cringes.

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

                                MAUDE
                Jeffrey.

                                DUDE
                Maude?

She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.

                                MAUDE
                Love me.

The Dude is stupefied.

                                DUDE
                That's my robe.

                                         THOOMP!  ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:

BLACK

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

                                MAUDE
                Tell me a little about yourself,
                Jeffrey.

                                DUDE
                Well, uh. . . Not much to tell.

A match is dragged across a headboard; the Dude is lighting
himself a joint.  He shakes the match out to restore blackness
except for the glowing tip of the joint.

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

                                MAUDE
                Uh-huh.

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

                                MAUDE
                Mmnun.

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

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

                                MAUDE
                Oh?

                                DUDE
                Yeah.  Roadie for Metallica.  Speed
                of Sound Tour.

                                MAUDE
                Uh-huh.

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

                                MAUDE
                What do you do for fun?

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

He climbs out of bed but Maude remains in it.  She wedges a
pillow into the small of her back and clasps a hand on each
kneecap.  She pulls her knees in toward her chest to keep
her pelvis raised.

                                MAUDE
                What happened to your house?

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

                                MAUDE
                Finder's fee?

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

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

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

He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.

                                MAUDE
                Jeffrey--

                                DUDE
                It's a complicated case, Maude.  
                Lotta ins, lotta outs.  Fortunately
                I've been adhering to a pretty strict,
                uh, drug regimen to keep my mind,
                you know, limber.  I'm real fucking
                close to your father's money, real
                fucking close.  It's just--

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

                                DUDE
                Huh?  He's fucking loaded.

                                MAUDE
                No no, the wealth was all Mother's.

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

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

                                DUDE
                But he's--

                                MAUDE
                He helps administer the charities
                now, and I give him a reasonable
                allowance.  He has no money of his
                own.  I know how he likes to present
                himself; Father's weakness is vanity.  
                Hence the slut.

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

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

                                MAUDE
                It increases the chances of
                conception.

The Dude spits some White Russian.

                                DUDE
                Increases?

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

                                DUDE
                Well...no, of course not--

                                MAUDE
                I want a child.

                                DUDE
                Yeah, okay, but see, the Dude--

                                MAUDE
                Look, Jeffrey, I don't want a partner.  
                In fact I don't want the father to
                be someone I have to see socially,
                or who'll have any interest in rearing
                the child himself.

                                DUDE
                Huh...

Something occurs to him.

                                DUDE
                So...that doctor.

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

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

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

                                MAUDE
                What?

The Dude is leaving the bedroom.

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

LIVING ROOM

The Dude finishes punching a number into the phone.

                                PHONE VOICE
                This is Walter Sobchak.  I'm not in;
                leave a message after the beep.

FROM THE BEDROOM:

                                MAUDE'S VOICE
                What're you talking about?

Beep.

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

                                WALTER
                Dude?

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

                                WALTER
                I can't drive, Dude, it's erev
                shabbas.

                                DUDE
                Huh?

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

                                DUDE
                It is a fucking emergency.

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

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

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

                                DUDE
                WALTER, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE, WE GOTTA
                GO TO PASADENA!  COME  PICK ME UP OR
                I'M OFF THE FUCKING BOWLING TEAM!

                                MAUDE'S VOICE
                Jeffrey?

THE DUDE

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

HIS POV

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

THE DUDE

Striding purposefully down the street.

HIS POV

The fat man leans forward and we hear the sound of the car's
ignition coughing, but the engine will not turn over.  More
whines and coughs; no start.

The man hurriedly fumbles in front of him.  He brings up a
newspaper, which he holds before his face.

THE DUDE

As he gets to the car.  He reaches through the open driver's
window and grabs the newspaper and hurls it to the ground.  
He is revved with nervous energy.

                                DUDE
                Get out of that fucking car, man!

The man nervously complies.  The Dude flinches at the man's
movement as he gets out.

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

He is wearing a cheap blue serge suit.  He is bald with a
short fringe and a mustache.

The Dude shouts to cover his fear:

                                DUDE
                Who the fuck are you, man!  Come on,
                man!

                                MAN
                Relax, man!  No physical harm
                intended!

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

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

The Dude is stunned.

                                DUDE
                Brother Shamus?  Like an Irish monk?

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

                                DUDE
                Huh?

                                DA FINO
                A dick, man!  And let me tell you
                something: I dig your work. Playing
                one side against the other--in bed
                with everybody--fabulous stuff, man.

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

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

                                DUDE
                She's not my special lady, she's my
                fucking lady friend.  I'm just helping
                her conceive, man!

                                DA FINO
                Hey, man, I'm not--

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

                                DA FINO
                The Gundersons.

                                DUDE
                The?  Who the fff--

                                DA FINO
                The Gundersons.  It's a wandering
                daughter job.  Bunny Lebowski, man.  
                Her real name is Fawn Gunderson.  
                Her parents want her back.

He is fumbling in his wallet.

                                DA FINO
                See?

The Dude looks at the picture.

It is probably a school portrait, unmistakably Bunny, but
fresh-faced, much younger looking, with a corn-fed smile and
straight Partridge Family hair and bangs.

                                DUDE
                Jesus fucking Christ.

                                DA FINO
                Crazy, huh?  Ran away a year ago.

He is holding out another picture.

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

A bleak farmhouse and silo are the only features on a flat
snow-swept landscape.

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

                                DUDE
                Boy.  How ya gonna keep 'em down on
                the farm once they seen Karl Hungus.

He hands back the picture.

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

                                DA FINO
                Fuck, man!  That's terrible!

                                DUDE
                Yeah, it sucks.

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

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah, I get it.  Fuck off, Da Fino.  
                And stay away from my special la--
                from my fucking lady friend.

The Dude steps out to meet Walter's car as it pulls up, its
passenger window open and the pomeranian leaning out and
yapping.

DENNY'S

Four people sit at a booth:  Dieter, Kieffer, Franz, all in
black leather, and a young woman with long stringy blonde
hair, wearing torn and patched jeans and a ribbed sleeveless
tee-shirt, worn thin with age.  She is apparently braless,
and is teutonically pale with birthmarks on her face and
arms.

Notable  is  her  camera-side  leg,  which  ends in  a bandage-
swaddled foot.  Dried rust-colored blood stains the tip of
the bandage. The  four  are  arguing,  loudly,  in  German.  
They seem  very unhappy. A waitress enters with a checkpad
and pen.

                                WAITRESS
                You folks ready?

The German shouting stops.  Dieter looks sourly up.

                                DIETER
                I haff lingenberry pancakes.

                                KIEFFER
                Lingenberry pancakes.

                                FRANZ
                Sree picks in blanket.

The woman speaks to Dieter in German.  He nods.

                                DIETER
                Lingenberry pancakes.

WALTER'S CAR

Walter's eyes are on the road as he listens, driving, to the
Dude, whose speech is occasionally punctuated by yaps from
the back seat.

                                DUDE
                I mean we totally fucked it up, man.  
                We fucked up his pay-off.  And got
                the kidnappers all pissed off, and
                the big Lebowski yelled at me a lot,
                but he didn't do anything.  Huh?

                                WALTER
                Well it's, sometimes the cathartic,
                uh.

                                DUDE
                I'm saying if he knows I'm a fuck-
                up, then why does he still leave me
                in charge of getting back his wife?  
                Because he fucking doesn't want her
                back, man!  He's had enough!  He no
                longer digs her!  It's all a show!  
                But then, why didn't he give a shit
                about his million bucks?  I mean, he
                knew we didn't hand off his briefcase,
                but he never asked for it back.

                                WALTER
                What's your point, Dude?

                                DUDE
                His million bucks was never in it,
                man!  There was no money in that
                briefcase!  He was hoping they'd
                kill her!  You throw out a ringer
                for a ringer!

                                WALTER
                Yeah?

                                DUDE
                Shit yeah!

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

                                DUDE
                Huh?

                                WALTER
                I'm saying, I see what you're getting
                at, Dude, he kept the money, but my
                point is, here we are, it's shabbas,
                the sabbath, which I'm allowed to
                break only if it's a matter of life
                and death--

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

                                WALTER
                What the fuck are you talking about?

                                DUDE
                You're fucking Polish Catholic--

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

                                DUDE
                Yeah, and you were--

                                WALTER
                You know this!

                                DUDE
                And you were divorced five fucking
                years ago.

                                WALTER
                Yeah?  What do you think happens
                when you get divorced?  You turn in
                your library card?  Get a new driver's
                license?  Stop being Jewish?

                                DUDE
                This driveway.

AS HE TURNS:

                                WALTER
                I'm as Jewish as fucking Tevye

                                DUDE
                It's just part of your whole sick
                Cynthia thing.  Taking care of her
                fucking dog.  Going to her fucking
                synagogue.  You're living in the
                fucking past.

                                WALTER
                Three thousand years of beautiful
                tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--
                YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I LIVE IN THE
                PAST!   I--Jesus.  What the hell
                happened?

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

THE LEBOWSKI MANSION

Walter's car pulls up the drive into the foreground and he
and the Dude get out.

Both are gaping off at the front lawn.

                                WALTER
                Jesus Christ.

THEIR POV

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

TRACKING DOWN THE GREAT HALLWAY

Through the French doors at its far end we can see Bunny,
naked, briefly bouncing on the diving board before splashing
into the illuminated pool outside.  Heavy metal music filters
in from a boom box by the pool.

Brandt, approaching, stoops and straightens, stoops and
straightens, picking up the discarded clothes that run the
length of the hall.

                                BRANDT
                He can't see you, Dude.

We pull the Dude and Walter as they approach the doors to
the great study.  Walter's dog follows, stiffly waving its
tail.

                                DUDE
                Where'd she been?

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

                                DUDE
                But I guess she told Dieter.

                                WALTER
                Jesus, Dude!  He never even kidnapped
                her.

                                BRANDT
                Who's this gentleman, Dude?

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

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

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

THE GREAT ROOM

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                        (bitterly)
                Well, she's back.  No thanks to you.

                                DUDE
                Where's the money, Lebowski?

                                WALTER
                A MILLION BUCKS FROM FUCKING NEEDY
                LITTLE URBAN ACHIEVERS!  YOU ARE
                SCUM, MAN!

The dog yaps.

                                LEBOWSKI
                Who the hell is he?

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

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

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

                                WALTER
                AS IF WE WOULD EVER DREAM OF TAKING
                YOUR BULLSHIT MONEY!

                                DUDE
                You thought Bunny'd been kidnapped
                and you could use it as a pretext to
                make some money disappear.  All you
                needed was a sap to pin it on, and
                you'd just met me.  You thought,
                hey, a deadbeat, a loser, someone
                the square community won't give a
                shit about.

                                LEBOWSKI
                Well?  Aren't you?

                                DUDE
                Well. . . yeah.

                                LEBOWSKI
                All right, get out.  Both of you.

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                I said out.  Now.

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

He is crossing to Lebowski.

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

                                LEBOWSKI
                Stay away from me, mister!

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

                                WALTER
                Walk, you fucking phony!

The big Lebowski waggles helplessly, his rubbery feet grazing
the floor like a Raggedy Ann's.  The pomeranian gaily leaps
and yaps.

                                LEBOWSKI
                Put me down, you son of a bitch!

                                DUDE
                Walter!

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

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

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

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

                                WALTER
                Oh, shit.

                                LEBOWSKI
                        (sobbing)
                You're bullies!  Cowards, both of
                you!

Walter is abashed.  The Big Lebowski flails about on the
floor.

                                WALTER
                Oh, shit.

                                DUDE
                He can't walk, Walter!

                                WALTER
                Yeah, I can see that, Dude.

                                LEBOWSKI
                You monsters!

                                DUDE
                Help me put him back in his chair.

Walter moves to comply.

                                WALTER
                Shit, sorry man.

THROUGH HIS TEARS:

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

                                DUDE
                Walter, you fuck!

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

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

The Dude has picked up the Big Lebowski's plaid lap warmer
and is frantically tucking it back in around his waist and
batting the dog away.

                                DUDE
                There ya go.  Sorry man.

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

                                WALTER
                Shit.  He didn't look like a spinal.

TEN PINS

Scattered at the cut.

DUDE AND WALTER

Each with a beer at the scoring table.

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

                                DUDE
                Uh-huh.

                                WALTER
                I mean 'Nam was a foot soldier's war
                whereas, uh, this thing should be a
                fucking cakewalk.  I mean I had an
                M16, Jacko, not an Abrams fucking
                tank.  Just me and Charlie, man,
                eyeball to eyeball.

                                DUDE
                Yeah.

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

                                DONNY
                Who's in pyjamas, Walter?

                                WALTER
                Shut the fuck up, Donny.  Not a bunch
                of fig-eaters with towels on their
                heads tryin' to find reverse on a
                Soviet tank.  This is not a worthy--

                                VOICE
                HEY!

The Dude and Walter look.

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

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

Walter looks at him innocently.

                                QUINTANA
                What is this bullshit, man?  I don't
                fucking care!  It don't matter to
                Jesus!  But you're not fooling me!  
                You might fool the fucks in the league
                office, but you don't fool Jesus!  
                It's bush league psych-out stuff!  
                Laughable, man!  I would've fucked
                you in the ass Saturday, I'll fuck
                you in the ass next Wednesday instead!

                                QUINTANA

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

                                QUINTANA
                You got a date Wednesday, man!

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

                                WALTER
                He's cracking.

BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT

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

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

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

REVERSE

Dieter, Kieffer and Franz, in shiny black leather, stand in
a line facing them in the all-but-deserted lot.  Behind them
orange flames lick gently at the Dude's car, which has been
put to the torch.  The orange flames glow on the men's
creaking leather.  Next to the car are three motorcycles,
parked in a neat row.  The Dude looks sadly at the burning
car.

                                DUDE
                They finally did it.  They killed my
                fucking car.

                                DIETER
                Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

                                KIEFFER
                Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.

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

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

                                DUDE

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

                                DONNY
                Are these the Nazis, Walter?

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

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

The Germans stop conferring.

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

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

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

                                WALTER
                Fuck you.  Fuck the three of you.

                                DUDE
                Hey, cool it Walter.

Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:

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

                                DIETER
                Zere ARE no ROOLZ!

                                WALTER
                NO RULES!  YOU CABBAGE-EATING SONS-
                OF- BITCHES--

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

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

                                DUDE
                Hey, cool it Walter.  Listen, pal,
                there never was any money.  The big
                Lebowski gave me an empty briefcase,
                man, so take it up with him.

                                WALTER
                AND I'D LIKE MY UNDIES BACK!

The Germans confer again, in German.

Donny is visibly frightened.

                                DONNY
                Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?

WALTER 'S TONE IS GENTLE:

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

THE CONFERENCE ENDS:

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

                                WALTER
                Fuck you.

The Dude is digging into his pocket.

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

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

                                WALTER
                What's mine is mine.

                                DUDE
                Come on, Walter!.

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

                                DUDE
                Four dollars here!

He inspects the change in his palm.

                                DUDE
                Almost five!

                                DONNY
                        (tremulously)
                I got eighteen dollars, Dude.

                                WALTER
                        (grimly)
                What's mine is mine.

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

                                DIETER
                VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!  VEE TAKE YOUR
                MONEY!

                                WALTER
                        (coolly)
                Come and get it.

                                DIETER
                VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!

                                WALTER
                Come and get it.  Fucking nihilist.

                                DIETER
                I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!

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

In a rage, Dieter charges.

                                DIETER
                I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!

WALTER

hurls his leather satchel.

KIEFFER

Watching Dieter's charge, is caught off-guard.  The bowling
ball thuds into his chest and lifts him off his feet.

He falls back, his uzi clattering away.

WALTER

twists away as Dieter reaches him; grabs Dieter's head in
both hands; draws Dieter's head up to his mouth, which closes
on Dieter's ear.

DUDE

He rushes Franz but draws up short as Franz sends out karate
kicks, his leather pants squeaking and popping.  Franz gives
a loud cry with each kick; the Dude leans back, throwing his
arms up, evading the kicks.

WALTER

His jaw is still clamped on Dieter's ear.  Dieter draws his
saber against Walter's side, drawing blood.

Walter doesn't react to the wound.  Growling as Dieter
screams, he worries his ear, waggling his head with his jaws
clamped.

THE SABER

Dieter drops it.

DUDE

Awkwardly circling, evading Franz's kicks.

WALTER

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

DIETER, EARLESS, SCREAMS:

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

Walter spits his ear into his face.

DUDE

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

                                FRANZ
                VEAKLING!

WALTER

draws back his fist.

                                DIETER
                NUSSING!

                                WALTER
                ANTI-SEMITE!

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

DUDE AND FRANZ

With a piercing shriek Franz finally summons the nerve to
charge the Dude, hands raised to deliver karate blows.

As he reaches the Dude--WHHAP--the  boom box swings into  
frame to smash him in the face.  Its volume shoots up.

Walter bashes him a few more times over the head.  The music
screeches to static, then quiet.  Laid out now, Franz too is
quiet.

All quiet.

Walter, panting, looks around.

                                WALTER
                We've got a man down, Dude.

With a hand pressed to his bleeding side he trots over to
Donny, who lies gasping on the ground.

The Dude, also panting, rises and trots over.

                                DUDE
                Hy God!  They shot him, Walter!

                                WALTER
                No Dude.

                                DUDE
                They shot Donny!

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

                                WALTER
                There weren't any shots.

                                DUDE
                Then what's...

                                WALTER
                It's a heart attack.

                                DUDE
                Wha.

                                WALTER
                Call the medics, Dude.

                                DUDE
                Wha. . . Donny--

                                WALTER
                Hurry Dude.  I'd go but I'm pumping
                blood.  Might pass out.

The Dude runs into the lanes.  Walter lays a reassuring hand
on Donny's shoulder.

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

FADE OUT

HOLD IN BLACK

THE DUDE AND WALTER

---

They sit side by side, forearms on knees, in a nondescript
waiting area.  Walter bounces the fingertips of one hand off
those of the other.  They sit.  They wait.

A tall thin man in a conservative black suit enters.  He
eyes the Dude's bowling attire and sunglasses and Walter's
army surplus, but doesn't make an issue of it.

                                MAN
                Hello, gentlemen.  You are the
                bereaved?

                                DUDE
                Yeah man.

                                MAN
                Francis Donnelly.  Pleased to meet
                you.

                                DUDE
                Jeffrey Lebowski.

                                WALTER
                Walter Sobchak.

                                DUDE
                The Dude, actually.  Is what, uh.

                                DONNELLY
                Excuse me?

                                DUDE
                Nothing.

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

                                WALTER
                Yeah.

                                DONNELLY
                We have the urn.

He nods through a door.  Another man in a black suit enters
to carefully deposit a large silver urn on the desktop.

                                DONNELLY
                And I assume this is credit card?

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

                                WALTER
                Yeah.

He takes it, opens it, puts on reading glasses that sit
halfway down his nose, and inspects the bill with his head
pulled back for focus and cocked for concentration.  Silence.  
The Dude smiles at Donnelly.  Donnelly gives back a
mortician's smile.  At length Walter holds the bill towards
Donnelly, pointing.

                                WALTER
                What's this?

                                DONNELLY
                That is for the urn.

                                WALTER
                Don't need it.  We're scattering the
                ashes.

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

                                WALTER
                This is a hundred and eighty dollars.

                                DONNELLY
                Yes sir.  It is our most modestly
                priced receptacle.

                                DUDE
                Well can we--

                                WALTER
                A hundred and eighty dollars?!

                                DONNELLY
                They range up to three thousand.

                                WALTER
                Yeah, but we're--

                                DUDE
                Can we just rent it from you?

                                DONNELLY
                Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental
                house.

                                WALTER
                We're scattering the fucking ashes!

                                DUDE
                Walter--

                                WALTER
                JUST BECAUSE WE'RE BEREAVED DOESN'T
                MEAN WE'RE SAPS!

                                DONNELLY
                Sir, please lower your voice--

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

                                DONNELLY
                That is our most modestly priced
                receptacle.

                                WALTER
                GODDAMNIT!  IS THERE A RALPH'S AROUND
                HERE?!

POINT DUME -- DAY

It is a high, wind-swept bluff.  Walter and the Dude walk
towards the lip of the bluff.  Parked in the background is
one lonely car, Walter's.

Walter is carrying a bright red coffee can with a blue plastic
lid.  When they reach the edge the two men stand awkwardly
for a beat.  Finally:

                                WALTER
                I'll say a few words.

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

                                WALTER
                Donny was a good bowler, and a good
                man.  He was. . . He was one of us.  
                He was a man who loved the outdoors,
                and bowling, and as a surfer explored
                the beaches of southern California
                from Redondo to Calabassos.  And he
                was an avid bowler.  And a good
                friend.  He died--he died as so many
                of his generation, before his time.  
                In your wisdom you took him, Lord.  
                As you took so many bright flowering
                young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc
                and Hill 364.  These young men gave
                their lives.  And Donny too.  Donny
                who. . . who loved bowling.

Walter clears his throat.

                                WALTER
                And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos,
                in accordance with what we think  
                your dying wishes might well have
                been, we commit your mortal remains
                to the bosom of.

Walter is peeling the plastic lid off the coffee can.

                                WALTER
                the Pacific Ocean, which you loved
                so well.

AS HE SHAKES OUT THE ASHES:

                                WALTER
                Goodnight, sweet prince.

The wind has blown all of the ashes into the Dude, standing
just to the side of and behind Walter. The Dude stands,
frozen. Finished eulogizing, Walter looks back.

                                WALTER
                Shit, I'm sorry Dude.

He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.

                                WALTER
                Goddamn wind.

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

                                DUDE
                Goddamnit Walter!  You fucking
                asshole!

                                WALTER
                Dude!  Dude, I'm sorry!

The Dude is near tears.

                                DUDE
                You make everything a fucking
                travesty!

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

The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.

                                DUDE
                What about that shit about Vietnam!

                                WALTER
                Dude, I'm sorry--

                                DUDE
                What the fuck does Vietnam have to
                do with anything!  What the fuck
                were you talking about?!

Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost
lost.

                                WALTER
                Shit Dude, I'm sorry--

                                DUDE
                You're a fuck, Walter!

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

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

THE LANES THE DUDE AND WALTER BOWLING

We watch each of them glide across the floor, release, follow
through--gracefully.  We have never seen them bowl before.  
They are quite good.  Each wears a black armband on his
bowling shirt.

BAR AREA

The Dude walks up to the bar.

                                DUDE
                Two oat sodas, Gary.

                                GARY
                Right.  Good luck tomorrow.

                                DUDE
                Thanks, man.

                                GARY
                Sorry to hear about Donny.

                                DUDE
                Yeah.  Well, you know, sometimes you
                eat the bear, and, uh.

"Tumbling Tumbleweeds" has come up on the jukebox, and The
Stranger ambles up to the bar.

                                THE STRANGER
                Howdy do, Dude.

                                DUDE
                Oh, hey man, how are ya?  I wondered
                if I'd see you again.

                                THE STRANGER
                Wouldn't miss the semis.  How things
                been goin'?

                                DUDE
                Ahh, you know.  Strikes and gutters,
                ups and downs.

The Stranger's eyes crinkle merrily.

                                THE STRANGER
                Sure, I gotcha.

The bartender has put two gleaming beers on the counter.

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

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

THE DUDE, LEAVING, NODS:

                                DUDE
                Yeah man.  Well, you know, the Dude
                abides.

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

                                THE STRANGER
                The Dude abides.

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

                                THE STRANGER
                I don't know about you, but I take
                comfort in that.  It's good knowin'
                he's out there, the Dude, takin' her
                easy for all us sinners.  Shoosh.  I
                sure hope he makes The finals.  Welp,
                that about does her, wraps her all
                up.  Things seem to've worked out
                pretty good for the Dude'n Walter,
                and it was a purt good story, dontcha
                think?   Made me laugh to beat the
                band.  Parts, anyway.  Course--I
                didn't like seein' Donny go. But
                then, happen to know that there's a
                little Lebowski on the way.  I guess
                that's the way the whole durned human
                comedy keeps perpetuatin' it-self,
                down through the generations, westward
                the wagons, across the sands a time
                until-- aw, look at me, I'm ramblin'
                again.  Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed
                yourselves.

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

                                THE STRANGER
                Catch ya further on down the trail.

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

                                THE STRANGER
                ...Say friend, ya got any more a
                that good sarsaparilla?...