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"Big Lebowski" Script / Screenplay / Quotes


Script

               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?   
						 The toilet seat's up!

               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.  Liam and 
                         me, we're gonna fuck you up.

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

               Quintana looks at Walter.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Jesus.

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

               Jesus walks away.  Walter nods sadly.

                                     WALTER
                         Eight-year-olds, Dude.

               DUDE'S BUNGALOW

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

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

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

               He screams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

               We hear an irritating, insistent beeping.

               FADE IN

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Oh man.

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

               WIDE ON THE ROOM

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

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

               The phone starts to jangle.

               TRACK

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Oh, nothin', you know.

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Uh-huh.

                                     BRANDT
                         Her life is in your hands.

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Shit.

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

               DUDE'S CAR

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Take the ringer.  I'll drive.

               The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.

                                     DUDE
                         The what?

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         What the hell is this?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Agh--

               He closes the briefcase.

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Walter--what the fuck are you 
                         thinking?

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

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

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

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

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

                                     DUDE '
                         Yeah, but--

               The phone chirps.  Dude grabs it.

                                     DUDE
                         Dude here.

                                     VOICE
                              (German accent)
                         Who is this?

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

                                     VOICE
                         ...Us?
                         DUDE

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

                                     VOICE
                         Shut the fuck up.
                              (Beat)
                         Hello?

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah?

                                     VOICE
                         Okay, listen--

               Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:

                                     WALTER
                         Dude, are you fucking this up?

                                     VOICE
                         Who is that?

                                     DUDE
                         The driver man, I told you--

               Click.  Dial tone.

                                     DUDE
                         Oh shit.  Walter.

                                     WALTER
                         What the fuck is going on there?

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

                                     WALTER
                         Easy, Dude.

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

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

               The phone chirps.

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

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

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

               The Dude unclips the phone from the battery pack.

                                     WALTER
                         But they're amateurs.

               The Dude glares at Walter.  Into the phone:

                                     DUDE
                         Dude here.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah.

                                     VOICE
                         So no funny stuff.  Okay?

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

               A HIGHWAY SIGN:  SIMI VALLEY ROAD

               It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.

                                     DUDE
                         That was the sign.

               Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.

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

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

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

               He looks at the Dude.

                                     WALTER
                         ...Huh?

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

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

               The phone chirps.

                                     DUDE
                         Dude.

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

               Click.  Dial tone.

                                     DUDE
                         FUCK.

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Huh?

                                     DUDE
                         We throw the money out of the moving 
                         car!

               Walter stares dumbly for a beat.

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Wooden bridge, huh?

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

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

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

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

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

               And there goes the ringer.

               He flings it out the window.

                                     DUDE
                         Walter!

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

                                     DUDE
                         What the fuck?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Uzi?

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Walter, please--

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

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

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

               OUTSIDE

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

               INSIDE THE CAR

               The car rocks and the Dude wrestles with the wheel.

               OUTSIDE

               The car clunks and screams around in a skid.

               INSIDE

               The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something.

               OUTSIDE

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         WE HAVE IT!  WE HAVE IT!!

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

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

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

               AFTER A LONG STARING SILENCE:

                                     WALTER
                         Ahh fuck it, let's go bowling.

               BOWLING LANE

               A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.

               WALTER.

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

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

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

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

               The portable phone stops ringing.

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

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

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

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

               Donny is trotting excitedly up.

                                     DONNY
                         They posted the next round of the 
                         tournament--

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

                                     DONNY
                         This Saturday.  Quintana and--

                                     WALTER
                         Saturday!  Well they'll have to 
                         reschedule.

                                     DUDE
                         Walter, what'm I gonna tell Lebowski?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Walter--

                                     DONNY
                         Burkhalter.

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

                                     DONNY
                         It's already posted.

                                     WALTER
                         WELL THEY CAN FUCKING UN-POST IT!

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

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         I'm shomer shabbas.

                                     DONNY
                         What's that, Walter?

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

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

                                     DONNY
                         Sheesh.

                                     DUDE
                         Walter, how--

                                     WALTER
                         Shomer shabbas.

               The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.

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

                                     WALTER
                         For Christ's sake, Dude.

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

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

                                     DONNY
                         Oh yeah, how'd it go?

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Yeah yeah, "kill that poor woman."

               He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.

                                     WALTER
                         Kill that poor woman.

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Walter--

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

                                     DUDE
                         "Our" car, Walter?

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

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

                                     DONNY
                         Who has your undies, Walter?

                                     WALTER
                         Where's your car, Dude?

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

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Aw, fuck it.

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

                                     DONNY
                         Where you going, Dude?

                                     DUDE
                         I'm going home, Donny.

                                     DONNY
                         Your phone's ringing, Dude.

                                     DUDE
                         Thank you, Donny.

               DUDE'S LIVING ROOM

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         1972 Pontiac LeBaron.

                                     YOUNGER COP
                         Color?

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

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

               DULLY:

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

                                     YOUNGER COP
                         In the briefcase?

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

                                     YOUNGER COP
                         And what do you do, sir?

                                     DUDE
                         I'm unemployed.

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

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

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

               AT LENGTH:

                                     DUDE
                         ...Also, my rug was stolen.

                                     YOUNGER COP
                         Your rug was in the car.

               The Dude taps the floor with his foot.

                                     DUDE
                         No.  Here.

                                     YOUNGER COP
                         Separate incidents?

               The Dude stares at the floor.

               Silence.

                                     OLDER COP
                         Snap out of it, son.

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

                                     DUDE
                         You find them much?  Stolen cars?

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         And the, uh, the briefcase?

               Beep.

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

               Beep.  Dial tone.

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

               TRACKING FORWARD

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

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

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

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

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

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

               She rumbles by in another pass.

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Is that what that's a picture of?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Oh yeah?

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

                                     DUDE
                         "Johnson"?

                                     MAUDE
                         Thank you.

               This to Elfranco, who has handed her a robe.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh?

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?

                                     DUDE
                         Excuse me?

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

                                     DUDE
                         I was talking about my rug.

                                     MAUDE
                         You're not interested in sex?

                                     DUDE
                         You mean coitus?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Oh, no.

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Take a look at this, sir.

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

               JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

               SECOND CARD:

               KARL HUNGUS

               AND

               BUNNY LAJOYA

               IN

               A THIRD CARD:

               LOGJAMMIN'

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

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

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

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         And you recognize her, of course.

               The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.

               Bunny The TV is in here.

                                     DIETER
                         Za, okay, I bring mein toolz.

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

                                     MAUDE
                              (grimly)
                         The story is ludicrous.

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

               Maude switches off the set.

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

                                     DUDE
                         He fixes the cable?

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Shit yeah, the achievers.

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

               fornicator is taking my father for the proverbial ride.

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah, but my-

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         A hundred.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah, but what about--

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

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         That's really thoughtful but I--

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

               LIMO

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

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

               THROUGH RASPING LAUGHTER:

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

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

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

                                     TONY
                         Aw, forget about it.

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh?

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

               He followed us here.

               The Dude turns to look.

               HIS POV

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

               THE DUDE

               He scowls.

                                     DUDE
                         When did he-

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

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

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

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

               The waiting limo's back door is flung open.

               INSIDE

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

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         Start talking and talk fast you lousy 
                         bum!

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Well we--I don't--

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

                                     BRANDT
                         This is our concern, Dude.

                                     DUDE
                         No, man, nothing is fucked here--

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

               The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.

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

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         WHAT?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                     BRANDT
                         That had not occurred to us, Dude.

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

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         Brandt, give him the envelope.

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

                                     BRANDT
                         We received it this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

               COFFEE SHOP

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

               AFTER A LONG BEAT:

                                     WALTER
                         That wasn't her toe.

                                     DUDE
                         Whose toe was it, Walter?

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

                                     DUDE
                         The nail polish, Walter.

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         But Walter--

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         What about the toe?

                                     WALTER
                         FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!

               A waitress enters.

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

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

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

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

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

               THE DUDE GETS UP:

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

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

               The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:

                                     WALTER
                         Our basic freedoms!

               He looks defiantly around.

                                     WALTER
                         I'm staying.  Finishing my coffee.

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

                                     WALTER
                         Finishing my coffee.

               DUDE'S BATHROOM

               A dripping noise.

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

               We hear the phone ringing in the other roam.

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

               After the Dude's outgoing message we hear:

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

               The Dude looks stuporously up, his head swaying.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Far out.  Far fuckin' out.

                                     MESSAGE
                         You'll just need to present a--

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

                                     DUDE
                         Hunh?

               He looks blearily at the open doorway.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Hey!  This is a private residence, 
                         man!

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

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

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

               The Dude looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.

                                     DUDE
                         Nice marmot.

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

               The Dude screams.

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

                                     FIRST MAN
                         Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

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

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

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Jesus!

                                     DIETER
                         Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!  
                         NOSSING!!

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

                                     DUDE
                         Jesus Christ!

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

                                     DUDE
                         Excuse me?

                                     FIRST MAN
                         I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON!

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

                                     SECOND MAN
                         Just sink about zat, Lebowski.

                                     FIRST MAN
                         Ja, your viggly penis, Lebowski.

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

               NORTH HOLLYWOOD AUTO CIRCUS

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

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

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

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

               The Dude climbs in the passenger side.

                                     DUDE
                         My fucking briefcase!  It's not here!

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

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

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

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

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

               The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.

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

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

               BOWLING ALLEY BAR

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

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

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Thanks Walter.

                                     WALTER
                         Not if I have anything to say about 
                         it.

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

                                     WALTER
                         Dude--

                                     DUDE
                         That makes me feel all warm inside.

                                     WALTER
                         Now Dude--

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

               Walter sadly shakes his head.

                                     WALTER
                         Fucking Germans.  Nothing changes.  
                         Fucking Nazis.

                                     DONNY
                         They were Nazis, Dude?

                                     WALTER
                         Come on, Donny, they were threatening 
                         castration!

                                     DONNY
                         Uh-huh.

                                     WALTER
                         Are you gonna split hairs?

                                     DONNY
                         No--

                                     WALTER
                         Am I wrong?

                                     DONNY
                         Well--

                                     DUDE
                         They're nihilists.

                                     WALTER
                         Huh?

                                     DUDE
                         They kept saying they believe in 
                         nothing.

                                     WALTER
                         Nihilists!  Jesus.

               Walter looks haunted.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah.

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         No, I'm--

                                     DUDE
                         Who gives a shit about the fucking 
                         marmot!

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

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

                                     DONNY
                         What do you need that for, Dude?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Fuck the tournament!  Fuck you, 
                         Walter!

               There is a moment of stunned silence.

                                     WALTER
                         Fuck the tournament?!

               SAD; QUIET:

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

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

               DOWN INTO HIS EMPTY GLASS:

                                     DUDE
                         Another Caucasian, Gary.

                                     VOICE
                         Right, Dude.

               STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:

                                     DUDE
                         Friends like these, huh Gary.

                                     GARY
                         That's right, Dude.

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

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

               TO THE BARTENDER:

                                     MAN
                         D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?

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

                                     BARTENDER
                         Sioux City Sarsaparilla.

               The Stranger nods.

                                     THE STRANGER
                         That's a good one.

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

                                     THE STRANGER
                         How ya doin' there, Dude?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Ahh, not so good, man.

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

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

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Far from it.

                                     DUDE
                         Mm.

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

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Much obliged.

               He looks back at the Dude.

                                     THE STRANGER
                         I like your style, Dude.

               THE DUDE LOOKS UP, ABSENTLY:

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         The fuck are you talking about?

               The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the 
               bar.

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Okay, have it your way.

               He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Take it easy, Dude.

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah.  Thanks man.

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

                                     VOICE
                         Dude!  Dude!

               THE DUDE LOOKS:

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

               MAUDE'S LOFT

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

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

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

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         She most certainly was not!

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

                                     MAUDE
                         And please don't call her my mother.

                                     DUDE
                         Now I got--

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         From who?

                                     DUDE
                         The main guy, Dieter--

                                     MAUDE
                         Dieter Hauff?

                                     DUDE
                         Well--yeah, I guess--

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

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

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

               The Dude fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.

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

               The Dude stops between two albums.

                                     DUDE
                         Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.

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

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

               OF THREE YOUNG GERMANS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW 
               SLICKED-

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

                                     DUDE
                         Jeez.  I miss vinyl.

                                     MAUDE
                         Is he pretending to be the abductor?

                                     DUDE
                         Well...yeah--

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

                                     DUDE
                         Well yeah...I know that.

                                     MAUDE
                         So Dieter has the money?

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Do you still have that doctor's 
                         number?

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

               She is scribbling.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Delayed after-eff--

                                     MAUDE
                         I want you to see him immediately.

               She is picking up a telephone.

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

               CLOSE SHOT   THE DUDE

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

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

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

               The Dude's eyes open.

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

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

               DUDE'S CAR

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

               HIS POV

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

               THE DUDE

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

               DUDE'S CROTCH

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

               THE STREET

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

               INSIDE THE CAR

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

                                     DUDE
                         Fuck Me.

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Fuckola, man.

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

               The Dude pulls it out.

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

               CRANE JACKSON'S FOUNTAIN STREET THEATER

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

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

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Near the In-and-Out Burger--

                                     DONNY
                         Those are good burgers, Walter.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Who the fuck is that?

                                     WALTER
                         Huh?

                                     DUDE
                         Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah.

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote 
                         156 episodes, Dude.

                                     DUDE
                         Uh-huh.

                                     WALTER
                         The bulk of the series.

                                     DUDE
                         Uh-huh.

                                     WALTER
                         Not exactly a lightweight.

                                     DUDE
                         No.

                                     WALTER
                         And yet his son is a fucking dunce.

                                     DUDE
                         Uh.

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

               He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.

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

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

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

               RESIDENTIAL AREA

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

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

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

               THE FRONT DOOR

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

                                     WOMAN
                         Jace?

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

                                     WOMAN
                         Jace.

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

                                     WOMAN
                         Jace.

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

               CALLS UP THE STAIRS:

                                     PILAR
                         Larry!  Sweetie!  Dat mang is here!

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

                                     WALTER
                         That's him, Dude.

                                     VIVA VOCE
                         And a good day to you, sir.

                                     PILAR
                         See down, please.

                                     WALTER
                         Thank you, ma'am.

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

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

                                     PILAR
                         No, no.  He has healt' problems.

                                     WALTER
                         Uh-huh.

               HE BELLOWS ACROSS THE ROOM:

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

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

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

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

               He adopts his command voice in turning to Larry:

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Is this your homework, Larry?

               Larry does not respond.

                                     WALTER
                         Is this your homework, Larry?

                                     DUDE
                         Look, man, did you--

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

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

               Walter is still holding out the homework.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Is the car out front yours?

                                     WALTER
                         Is this your homework, Larry?

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter!

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

                                     DUDE
                         And the fucking money!

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

               No answer.

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

               FINALLY, IN DISGUST:

                                     WALTER
                         Ah, this is pointless.

               As he shoves the homework back in the attache case:

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

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

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

               OUTSIDE

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

                                     WALTER
                         Fucking language problem, Dude.

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

                                     WALTER
                         Maybe he'll understand this.

               He is walking over to the Corvette.

                                     WALTER
                         YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

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

                                     WALTER
                         YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!

               CRASH!  He takes out the driver's window.

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

               CRASH!

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

               CRASH!

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

                                     MAN
                         WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?!

               He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.

                                     MAN
                         I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!

               Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.

                                     WALTER
                         Hunh?

               The man looks about, wildly.

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

               He runs over to the Dude's car.

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

               CRASH!  CRASH!

                                     MAN
                         I FUCKEEN KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

               CRASH!

                                     MAN
                         I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

               INSIDE THE CAR

               Glass rains in on a terrified, cringing, Donny.

                                     MAN
                         I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

                                            ON A DEAFENING CRASH WE CUT TO:

               THE DUDE'S CAR

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

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

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

               Creedence music plays above the bluster of wind.

               DUDE'S BUNGALOW

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

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

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh?

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

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

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

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

                                     BLOND MAN
                         You're not dealing with morons here.

               BLACKNESS

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

               MALIBU BEACH

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

               WIDER

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

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

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

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

               INSIDE THE BEACH HOUSE

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

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

                                     TREEHORN
                         What's your drink, Dude?

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Which one was Logjammin'?

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

               He taps his forehead with one finger.

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

                                     DUDE
                         On you, maybe.

               He hands him the drink.

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         I thought you might know, man.

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

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

               Treehorn waves this off.

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Does the Pope shit in the woods?

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

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

               He is getting to his feet, but sways woozily.

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

               The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus.

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

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

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

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

               He tips forward, spilling his drink off the table.

               FROM UNDER THE GLASS COFFEE TABLE

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

               FAST FADE OUT

               BLACK

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

               We hear a thundering bass.

               SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:

               JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

               ANOTHER TITLE CARD:

               THE DUDE

               AND

               MAUDE LEBOWSKI

               IN

               THIRD TITLE CARD:

               GUTTERBALLS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

               SQUAD CAR

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

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

               CHIEF'S OFFICE

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

               His wallet is tossed onto the desk.

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

                                     CHIEF
                         This is your only I.D.?

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

                                     DUDE
                         I know my rights.

                                     CHIEF
                         You don't know shit, Lebowski.

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Uh-huh.

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

                                     DUDE
                         That guy treats women like objects, 
                         man.

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

               The Dude stares.

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         --Ow!  Fucking fascist!

               The Chief slaps him twice.

                                     CHIEF
                         Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!

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

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

               CAB

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

               "Peaceful Easy Feeling" is on the radio.

               DUDE'S POV

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

                                     DUDE
                         Jesus, man, can you change the 
                         station?

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

                                     DUDE
                         I've had a--

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

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

                                     DRIVER
                         That's it!  Outta this fucking cab!

               THE STREET

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

               INSIDE THE OTHER CAR

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

               THE FOOTWELL

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

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

               Five more toes.

               DUDE'S BUNGALOW

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

                                     DUDE
                         Jesus.

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

               Quiet.

               The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.

               The Dude cringes.

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Jeffrey.

                                     DUDE
                         Maude?

               She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.

                                     MAUDE
                         Love me.

               The Dude is stupefied.

                                     DUDE
                         That's my robe.

                                         THOOMP!  ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:

               BLACK

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Tell me a little about yourself, 
                         Jeffrey.

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

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Uh-huh.

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Mmnun.

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Oh?

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Uh-huh.

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

                                     MAUDE
                         What do you do for fun?

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         What happened to your house?

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

                                     MAUDE
                         Finder's fee?

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

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

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

               He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.

                                     MAUDE
                         Jeffrey--

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh?  He's fucking loaded.

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         But he's--

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

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         It increases the chances of 
                         conception.

               The Dude spits some White Russian.

                                     DUDE
                         Increases?

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         I want a child.

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh...

               Something occurs to him.

                                     DUDE
                         So...that doctor.

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

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

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

                                     MAUDE
                         What?

               The Dude is leaving the bedroom.

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

               LIVING ROOM

               The Dude finishes punching a number into the phone.

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

               FROM THE BEDROOM:

                                     MAUDE'S VOICE
                         What're you talking about?

               Beep.

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

                                     WALTER
                         Dude?

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh?

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

                                     DUDE
                         It is a fucking emergency.

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

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

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

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

                                     MAUDE'S VOICE
                         Jeffrey?

               THE DUDE

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

               HIS POV

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

               THE DUDE

               Striding purposefully down the street.

               HIS POV

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

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

               THE DUDE

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

                                     DUDE
                         Get out of that fucking car, man!

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

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

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

               The Dude shouts to cover his fear:

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

                                     MAN
                         Relax, man!  No physical harm 
                         intended!

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

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

               The Dude is stunned.

                                     DUDE
                         Brother Shamus?  Like an Irish monk?

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                     DA FINO
                         The Gundersons.

                                     DUDE
                         The?  Who the fff--

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

               He is fumbling in his wallet.

                                     DA FINO
                         See?

               The Dude looks at the picture.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Jesus fucking Christ.

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

               He is holding out another picture.

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

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

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

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

               He hands back the picture.

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

                                     DA FINO
                         Fuck, man!  That's terrible!

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah, it sucks.

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

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

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

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

               DENNY'S

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

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

                                     WAITRESS
                         You folks ready?

               The German shouting stops.  Dieter looks sourly up.

                                     DIETER
                         I haff lingenberry pancakes.

                                     KIEFFER
                         Lingenberry pancakes.

                                     FRANZ
                         Sree picks in blanket.

               The woman speaks to Dieter in German.  He nods.

                                     DIETER
                         Lingenberry pancakes.

               WALTER'S CAR

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

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

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         What's your point, Dude?

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

                                     WALTER
                         Yeah?

                                     DUDE
                         Shit yeah!

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

                                     DUDE
                         Huh?

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         What the fuck are you talking about?

                                     DUDE
                         You're fucking Polish Catholic--

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

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah, and you were--

                                     WALTER
                         You know this!

                                     DUDE
                         And you were divorced five fucking 
                         years ago.

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

                                     DUDE
                         This driveway.

               AS HE TURNS:

                                     WALTER
                         I'm as Jewish as fucking Tevye

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

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

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

               THE LEBOWSKI MANSION

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

               Both are gaping off at the front lawn.

                                     WALTER
                         Jesus Christ.

               THEIR POV

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

               TRACKING DOWN THE GREAT HALLWAY

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

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

                                     BRANDT
                         He can't see you, Dude.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Where'd she been?

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

                                     DUDE
                         But I guess she told Dieter.

                                     WALTER
                         Jesus, Dude!  He never even kidnapped 
                         her.

                                     BRANDT
                         Who's this gentleman, Dude?

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

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

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

               THE GREAT ROOM

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Where's the money, Lebowski?

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

               The dog yaps.

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         Who the hell is he?

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

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

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

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

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

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         Well?  Aren't you?

                                     DUDE
                         Well. . . yeah.

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         All right, get out.  Both of you.

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

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         I said out.  Now.

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

               He is crossing to Lebowski.

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

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         Stay away from me, mister!

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

                                     WALTER
                         Walk, you fucking phony!

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

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         Put me down, you son of a bitch!

                                     DUDE
                         Walter!

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

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

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Oh, shit.

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Oh, shit.

                                     DUDE
                         He can't walk, Walter!

                                     WALTER
                         Yeah, I can see that, Dude.

                                     LEBOWSKI
                         You monsters!

                                     DUDE
                         Help me put him back in his chair.

               Walter moves to comply.

                                     WALTER
                         Shit, sorry man.

               THROUGH HIS TEARS:

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

                                     DUDE
                         Walter, you fuck!

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

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         There ya go.  Sorry man.

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

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

               TEN PINS

               Scattered at the cut.

               DUDE AND WALTER

               Each with a beer at the scoring table.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Uh-huh.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah.

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

                                     DONNY
                         Who's in pyjamas, Walter?

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

                                     VOICE
                         HEY!

               The Dude and Walter look.

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

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

               Walter looks at him innocently.

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

                                     QUINTANA

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

                                     QUINTANA
                         You got a date Wednesday, man!

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

                                     WALTER
                         He's cracking.

               BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT

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

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

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

               REVERSE

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

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

                                     DIETER
                         Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

                                     KIEFFER
                         Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.

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

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

                                     DUDE

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

                                     DONNY
                         Are these the Nazis, Walter?

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

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

               The Germans stop conferring.

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

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         Fuck you.  Fuck the three of you.

                                     DUDE
                         Hey, cool it Walter.

               Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:

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

                                     DIETER
                         Zere ARE no ROOLZ!

                                     WALTER
                         NO RULES!  YOU CABBAGE-EATING SONS-
                         OF- BITCHES--

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

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

                                     DUDE
                         Hey, cool it Walter.  Listen, pal, 
                         there never was any money.  The big 
                         Lebowski gave me an empty briefcase, 
                         man, so take it up with him.

                                     WALTER
                         AND I'D LIKE MY UNDIES BACK!

               The Germans confer again, in German.

               Donny is visibly frightened.

                                     DONNY
                         Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?

               WALTER 'S TONE IS GENTLE:

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

               THE CONFERENCE ENDS:

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

                                     WALTER
                         Fuck you.

               The Dude is digging into his pocket.

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

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

                                     WALTER
                         What's mine is mine.

                                     DUDE
                         Come on, Walter!.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Four dollars here!

               He inspects the change in his palm.

                                     DUDE
                         Almost five!

                                     DONNY
                              (tremulously)
                         I got eighteen dollars, Dude.

                                     WALTER
                              (grimly)
                         What's mine is mine.

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

                                     DIETER
                         VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!  VEE TAKE YOUR 
                         MONEY!

                                     WALTER
                              (coolly)
                         Come and get it.

                                     DIETER
                         VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!

                                     WALTER
                         Come and get it.  Fucking nihilist.

                                     DIETER
                         I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!

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

               In a rage, Dieter charges.

                                     DIETER
                         I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!

               WALTER

               hurls his leather satchel.

               KIEFFER

               Watching Dieter's charge, is caught off-guard.  The bowling 
               ball thuds into his chest and lifts him off his feet.

               He falls back, his uzi clattering away.

               WALTER

               twists away as Dieter reaches him; grabs Dieter's head in 
               both hands; draws Dieter's head up to his mouth, which closes 
               on Dieter's ear.

               DUDE

               He rushes Franz but draws up short as Franz sends out karate 
               kicks, his leather pants squeaking and popping.  Franz gives 
               a loud cry with each kick; the Dude leans back, throwing his 
               arms up, evading the kicks.

               WALTER

               His jaw is still clamped on Dieter's ear.  Dieter draws his 
               saber against Walter's side, drawing blood.

               Walter doesn't react to the wound.  Growling as Dieter 
               screams, he worries his ear, waggling his head with his jaws 
               clamped.

               THE SABER

               Dieter drops it.

               DUDE

               Awkwardly circling, evading Franz's kicks.

               WALTER

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

               DIETER, EARLESS, SCREAMS:

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

               Walter spits his ear into his face.

               DUDE

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

                                     FRANZ
                         VEAKLING!

               WALTER

               draws back his fist.

                                     DIETER
                         NUSSING!

                                     WALTER
                         ANTI-SEMITE!

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

               DUDE AND FRANZ

               With a piercing shriek Franz finally summons the nerve to 
               charge the Dude, hands raised to deliver karate blows.

               As he reaches the Dude--WHHAP--the  boom box swings into  
               frame to smash him in the face.  Its volume shoots up.

               Walter bashes him a few more times over the head.  The music 
               screeches to static, then quiet.  Laid out now, Franz too is 
               quiet.

               All quiet.

               Walter, panting, looks around.

                                     WALTER
                         We've got a man down, Dude.

               With a hand pressed to his bleeding side he trots over to 
               Donny, who lies gasping on the ground.

               The Dude, also panting, rises and trots over.

                                     DUDE
                         Hy God!  They shot him, Walter!

                                     WALTER
                         No Dude.

                                     DUDE
                         They shot Donny!

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

                                     WALTER
                         There weren't any shots.

                                     DUDE
                         Then what's...

                                     WALTER
                         It's a heart attack.

                                     DUDE
                         Wha.

                                     WALTER
                         Call the medics, Dude.

                                     DUDE
                         Wha. . . Donny--

                                     WALTER
                         Hurry Dude.  I'd go but I'm pumping 
                         blood.  Might pass out.

               The Dude runs into the lanes.  Walter lays a reassuring hand 
               on Donny's shoulder.

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

               FADE OUT

               HOLD IN BLACK

               THE DUDE AND WALTER

               ---

               They sit side by side, forearms on knees, in a nondescript 
               waiting area.  Walter bounces the fingertips of one hand off 
               those of the other.  They sit.  They wait.

               A tall thin man in a conservative black suit enters.  He 
               eyes the Dude's bowling attire and sunglasses and Walter's 
               army surplus, but doesn't make an issue of it.

                                     MAN
                         Hello, gentlemen.  You are the 
                         bereaved?

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah man.

                                     MAN
                         Francis Donnelly.  Pleased to meet 
                         you.

                                     DUDE
                         Jeffrey Lebowski.

                                     WALTER
                         Walter Sobchak.

                                     DUDE
                         The Dude, actually.  Is what, uh.

                                     DONNELLY
                         Excuse me?

                                     DUDE
                         Nothing.

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

                                     WALTER
                         Yeah.

                                     DONNELLY
                         We have the urn.

               He nods through a door.  Another man in a black suit enters 
               to carefully deposit a large silver urn on the desktop.

                                     DONNELLY
                         And I assume this is credit card?

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

                                     WALTER
                         Yeah.

               He takes it, opens it, puts on reading glasses that sit 
               halfway down his nose, and inspects the bill with his head 
               pulled back for focus and cocked for concentration.  Silence.  
               The Dude smiles at Donnelly.  Donnelly gives back a 
               mortician's smile.  At length Walter holds the bill towards 
               Donnelly, pointing.

                                     WALTER
                         What's this?

                                     DONNELLY
                         That is for the urn.

                                     WALTER
                         Don't need it.  We're scattering the 
                         ashes.

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

                                     WALTER
                         This is a hundred and eighty dollars.

                                     DONNELLY
                         Yes sir.  It is our most modestly 
                         priced receptacle.

                                     DUDE
                         Well can we--

                                     WALTER
                         A hundred and eighty dollars?!

                                     DONNELLY
                         They range up to three thousand.

                                     WALTER
                         Yeah, but we're--

                                     DUDE
                         Can we just rent it from you?

                                     DONNELLY
                         Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental 
                         house.

                                     WALTER
                         We're scattering the fucking ashes!

                                     DUDE
                         Walter--

                                     WALTER
                         JUST BECAUSE WE'RE BEREAVED DOESN'T 
                         MEAN WE'RE SAPS!

                                     DONNELLY
                         Sir, please lower your voice--

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

                                     DONNELLY
                         That is our most modestly priced 
                         receptacle.

                                     WALTER
                         GODDAMNIT!  IS THERE A RALPH'S AROUND 
                         HERE?!

               POINT DUME -- DAY

               It is a high, wind-swept bluff.  Walter and the Dude walk 
               towards the lip of the bluff.  Parked in the background is 
               one lonely car, Walter's.

               Walter is carrying a bright red coffee can with a blue plastic 
               lid.  When they reach the edge the two men stand awkwardly 
               for a beat.  Finally:

                                     WALTER
                         I'll say a few words.

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

                                     WALTER
                         Donny was a good bowler, and a good 
                         man.  He was. . . He was one of us.  
                         He was a man who loved the outdoors, 
                         and bowling, and as a surfer explored 
                         the beaches of southern California 
                         from Redondo to Calabassos.  And he 
                         was an avid bowler.  And a good 
                         friend.  He died--he died as so many 
                         of his generation, before his time.  
                         In your wisdom you took him, Lord.  
                         As you took so many bright flowering 
                         young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc 
                         and Hill 364.  These young men gave 
                         their lives.  And Donny too.  Donny 
                         who. . . who loved bowling.

               Walter clears his throat.

                                     WALTER
                         And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos, 
                         in accordance with what we think   
                         your dying wishes might well have 
                         been, we commit your mortal remains 
                         to the bosom of.

               Walter is peeling the plastic lid off the coffee can.

                                     WALTER
                         the Pacific Ocean, which you loved 
                         so well.

               AS HE SHAKES OUT THE ASHES:

                                     WALTER
                         Goodnight, sweet prince.

               The wind has blown all of the ashes into the Dude, standing 
               just to the side of and behind Walter. The Dude stands, 
               frozen. Finished eulogizing, Walter looks back.

                                     WALTER
                         Shit, I'm sorry Dude.

               He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.

                                     WALTER
                         Goddamn wind.

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

                                     DUDE
                         Goddamnit Walter!  You fucking 
                         asshole!

                                     WALTER
                         Dude!  Dude, I'm sorry!

               The Dude is near tears.

                                     DUDE
                         You make everything a fucking 
                         travesty!

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

               The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.

                                     DUDE
                         What about that shit about Vietnam!

                                     WALTER
                         Dude, I'm sorry--

                                     DUDE
                         What the fuck does Vietnam have to 
                         do with anything!  What the fuck 
                         were you talking about?!

               Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost 
               lost.

                                     WALTER
                         Shit Dude, I'm sorry--

                                     DUDE
                         You're a fuck, Walter!

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

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

               THE LANES THE DUDE AND WALTER BOWLING

               We watch each of them glide across the floor, release, follow 
               through--gracefully.  We have never seen them bowl before.  
               They are quite good.  Each wears a black armband on his 
               bowling shirt.

               BAR AREA

               The Dude walks up to the bar.

                                     DUDE
                         Two oat sodas, Gary.

                                     GARY
                         Right.  Good luck tomorrow.

                                     DUDE
                         Thanks, man.

                                     GARY
                         Sorry to hear about Donny.

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah.  Well, you know, sometimes you 
                         eat the bear, and, uh.

               "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" has come up on the jukebox, and The 
               Stranger ambles up to the bar.

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Howdy do, Dude.

                                     DUDE
                         Oh, hey man, how are ya?  I wondered 
                         if I'd see you again.

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Wouldn't miss the semis.  How things 
                         been goin'?

                                     DUDE
                         Ahh, you know.  Strikes and gutters, 
                         ups and downs.

               The Stranger's eyes crinkle merrily.

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Sure, I gotcha.

               The bartender has put two gleaming beers on the counter.

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

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

               THE DUDE, LEAVING, NODS:

                                     DUDE
                         Yeah man.  Well, you know, the Dude 
                         abides.

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

                                     THE STRANGER
                         The Dude abides.

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

                                     THE STRANGER
                         I don't know about you, but I take 
                         comfort in that.  It's good knowin' 
                         he's out there, the Dude, takin' her 
                         easy for all us sinners.  Shoosh.  I 
                         sure hope he makes The finals.  Welp, 
                         that about does her, wraps her all 
                         up.  Things seem to've worked out 
                         pretty good for the Dude'n Walter, 
                         and it was a purt good story, dontcha 
                         think?   Made me laugh to beat the 
                         band.  Parts, anyway.  Course--I 
                         didn't like seein' Donny go. But 
                         then, happen to know that there's a 
                         little Lebowski on the way.  I guess 
                         that's the way the whole durned human 
                         comedy keeps perpetuatin' it-self, 
                         down through the generations, westward 
                         the wagons, across the sands a time 
                         until-- aw, look at me, I'm ramblin' 
                         again.  Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed 
                         yourselves.

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

                                     THE STRANGER
                         Catch ya further on down the trail.

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

                                     THE STRANGER
                         ...Say friend, ya got any more a 
                         that good sarsaparilla?...


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Created: 11/30/98       Last updated: 30 Jun 2012
[Source: http://www.pdx.informix.com/~rbednark/big.lebowski.script.html : /u/rbednark/public_html/big.lebowski.script.html]