The big Lebowski

Stampa questo copione

               THE BIG LEBOWSKI

               We are floating up a steep scrubby slope.  We hear male

voices

               gently singing "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" and a deep, affable,

               Western-accented voice--Sam Elliot's, perhaps:

                                     VOICE-OVER

                         A way out west there was a fella,

                         fella I want to tell you about, fella

                         by the name of Jeff Lebowski.  At

                         least, that was the handle his lovin'

                         parents gave him, but he never had

                         much use for it himself.  This

                         Lebowski, he called himself the Dude.

                         Now, Dude, that's a name no one would

                         self-apply where I come from.  But

                         then, there was a lot about the Dude

                         that didn't make a whole lot of sense

                         to me.  And a lot about where he

                         lived, like- wise.  But then again,

                         maybe that's why I found the place

                         s'durned innarestin'.

               We top the rise and the smoggy vastness of Los Angeles at

               twilight stretches out before us.

                                     VOICE-OVER

                         They call Los Angeles the City of

                         Angels.  I didn't find it to be that

                         exactly, but I'll allow as there are

                         some nice folks there.  'Course, I

                         can't say I seen London, and I never

                         been to France, and I ain't never

                         seen no queen in her damn undies as

                         the fella says.  But I'll tell you

                         what, after seeing Los Angeles and

                         thisahere story I'm about to unfold--

                         wal, I guess I seen somethin' ever'

                         bit as stupefyin' as ya'd see in any

                         a those other places, and in English

                         too, so I can die with a smile on my

                         face without feelin' like the good

                         Lord gypped me.

               INTERIOR   RALPH'S

               It is late, the supermarket all but deserted.  We are

tracking

               in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the

               dairy case.  He is the Dude.  His rumpled look and relaxed

               manner suggest a man in whom casualness runs deep.

               He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their

               expiration dates.

                                     VOICE-OVER

                         Now this story I'm about to unfold

                         took place back in the early nineties--

                         just about the time of our conflict

                         with Sad'm and the Eye-rackies.  I

                         only mention it 'cause some- times

                         there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro,

                         'cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes

                         there's a man.

               The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of

               milk.  He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs.

                                     VOICE-OVER

                         And I'm talkin' about the Dude here--

                         sometimes there's a man who, wal,

                         he's the man for his time'n place,

                         he fits right in there--and that's

                         the Dude, in Los Angeles.

               CHECKOUT GIRL

               She waits, arms folded.  A small black-and white TV next to

               her register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with

               helicopter rotors spinning behind him.

                                     GEORGE BUSH

                         This aggression will not stand. . .

                         This will not stand!

               The Dude, peeking over his shades, scribbles something at

               the little customer's lectern.  Milk beads his mustache.

                                     VOICE-OVER

                         ...and even if he's a lazy man, and

                         the Dude was certainly that--quite

                         possibly the laziest in Los Angeles

                         County.

               The Dude has his Ralph's Shopper's Club card to one side and

               is making out a check to Ralph's for sixty-nine cents.

                                     VOICE-OVER

                         ...which would place him high in the

                         runnin' for laziest worldwide--but

                         sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes

                         there's a man.

               EXTERIOR  RALPH'S

               Long shot of the glowing Ralph's.  There are only two or

               three cars parked in the huge lot.

                                     VOICE-OVER

                         Wal, I lost m'train of thought here.

                         But--aw hell, I done innerduced him

                         enough.

               The Dude is a small figure walking across the vast lot.

               Next to him walks a Mexican carry-out boy in a red apron and

               cap carrying a small brown bag holding the quart of milk.

               The two men's footsteps echo in the still of the night.

               After a beat of walking the Dude offhandedly points.

                                     DUDE

                         It's the LeBaron.

               DUDE'S HOUSE

               The Dude is going up the walkway of a small Venice bungalow

               court.  He holds the paper sack in one hand and a small

               leatherette satchel in the other.  He awkwardly hugs the

               grocery bag against his chest as he turns a key in his door.

               INSIDE

               The Dude enters and flicks on a light.

               His head is grabbed from behind and tucked into an armpit.

               We track with him as he is rushed through the living room,

               his arm holding the satchel flailing away from his body.

               Going into the bedroom the outflung satchel catches a piece

               of doorframe and wallboard and rips through it, leaving a

               hole.

               The Dude is propelled across the bedroom and on into a small

               bathroom, the satchel once again taking away a piece of

               doorframe.  His head is plunged into the toilet.  The paper

               bag hugged to his chest explodes milk as it hits the toilet

               rim and the satchel pulverizes tile as it crashes to the

               floor.

               The Dude blows bubbles.

                                     VOICE

                         We want that money, Lebowski.  Bunny

                         said you were good for it.

               Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet. The Dude blubbers and

               gasps for air.

                                     VOICE

                         Where's the money, Lebowski!

               His head is plunged back into the toilet.

                                     VOICE

                         Where's the money, Lebowski!

               The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping.

                                     VOICE

                         WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY, SHITHEAD!

                                     DUDE

                         It's uh, it's down there somewhere.

                         Lemme take another look.

               His head is plunged back in.

                                     VOICE

                         Don't fuck with us.  If your wife

                         owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that

                         means you owe money to Jackie

                         Treehorn.

               The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and

               flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against

               the toilet.

               The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand.

               Looming over him is a strapping blond man.

               Beyond in the living room a young Chinese man unzips his fly

               and walks over to a rug.

                                     CHINESE MAN

                         Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski.

               He starts peeing on the rug.

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

               sunglasses.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh, man.  Don't do--

                                     BLOND MAN

                         You see what happens?  You see what

                         happens, Lebowski?

               The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.

                                     DUDE

                         Look, nobody calls me Lebowski.  You

                         got the wrong guy.  I'm the Dude,

                         man.

                                     BLOND MAN

                         Your name is Lebowski.  Your wife is

                         Bunny.

                                     DUDE

                         Bunny?  Look, moron.

               He holds up his hands.

                                     DUDE

                         You see a wedding ring?  Does this

                         place look like I'm fucking married?

                         All my plants are dead!

               The blond man stoops to unzip the satchel.  He pulls out a

               bowling ball and examines it in the manner of a superstitious

               native.

                                     BLOND MAN

                         The fuck is this?

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

               it.

                                     DUDE

                         Obviously you're not a golfer.

               The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.

                                     BLOND MAN

                         Woo?

               The Chinese man is zipping his fly.

                                     WOO

                         Yeah?

                                     BLOND MAN

                         Wasn't this guy supposed to be a

                         millionaire?

                                     WOO

                         Uh?

               They both look around.

                                     WOO

                         Fuck.

                                     BLOND MAN

                         What do you think?

                                     WOO

                         He looks like a fuckin' loser.

               The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose with one finger

               and peeks over them.

                                     DUDE

                         Hey.  At least I'm housebroken.

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

                                     WOO

                         Fuckin' waste of time.

               The blond man turns testily at the door.

                                     BLOND MAN

                         Thanks a lot, asshole.

                                                ON THE DOOR SLAM WE CUT TO:

               BOWLING PINS

               Scattered by a strike.

               Music and head credits play over various bowling shots--pins

               flying, bowlers hoisting balls, balls gliding down lanes,

               sliding feet, graceful releases, ball return spinning up a

               ball, fingers sliding into fingerholes, etc.

               The music turns into boomy source music, coming from a

distant

               jukebox, as the credits end over a clattering strike.

               A lanky blonde man with stringy hair tied back in a ponytail

               turns from the strike to walk back to the bench.

                                     MAN

                         Hot damn, I'm throwin' rocks tonight.

                         Mark it, Dude.

               We are tracking in on the circular bench towards a big man

               nursing a large plastic cup of Bud.  He has dark worried

               eyes and a goatee.  Hairy legs emerge from his khaki shorts.

               He also wears a khaki army surplus shirt with the sleeves

               cut off over an old bowling shirt.  This is Walter.  He

               squints through the smoke from his own cigarette as he

               addresses the Dude at the scoring table.

               The Dude, also holding a large plastic cup of Bud, wears

               some of its foam on his mustache.

                                     WALTER

                         This was a valued rug.

               He elaborately clears his throat.

                                     WALTER

                         This was, uh--

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah man, it really tied the room

                         together--

                                     WALTER

                         This was a valued, uh.

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

Walter.

                                     DONNY

                         What tied the room together, Dude?

                                     WALTER

                         Were you listening to the story,

                         Donny?

                                     DONNY

                         What--

                                     WALTER

                         Were you listening to the Dude's

                         story?

                                     DONNY

                         I was bowling--

                                     WALTER

                         So you have no frame of reference,

                         Donny.  You're like a child who

                         wanders in in the middle of a movie

                         and wants to know--

                                     DUDE

                         What's your point, Walter?

                                     WALTER

                         There's no fucking reason--here's my

                         point, Dude--there's no fucking reason--

                                     DONNY

                         Yeah Walter, what's your point?

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?

                                     DUDE

                         What's the point of--we all know who

                         was at fault, so what the fuck are

                         you talking about?

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?  No!  What the fuck are you

                         talking--I'm not--we're talking about

                         unchecked aggression here--

                                     DONNY

                         What the fuck is he talking about?

                                     DUDE

                         My rug.

                                     WALTER

                         Forget it, Donny.  You're out of

                         your element.

                                     DUDE

                         This Chinaman who peed on my rug, I

                         can't go give him a bill so what the

                         fuck are you talking about?

                                     WALTER

                         What the fuck are you talking about?!

                         This Chinaman is not the issue!  I'm

                         talking about drawing a line in the

                         sand, Dude.  Across this line you do

                         not, uh--and also, Dude, Chinaman is

                         not the preferred, uh. . . Asian-

                         American.  Please.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, this is not a guy who built

                         the rail- roads, here, this is a guy

                         who peed on my--

                                     WALTER

                         What the fuck are you--

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, he peed on my rug--

                                     DONNY

                         He peed on the Dude's rug--

                                     WALTER

                         YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT!  This

                         Chinaman is not the issue, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         So who--

                                     WALTER

                         Jeff Lebowski.  Come on.  This other

                         Jeffrey Lebowski.  The millionaire.

                         He's gonna be easier to find anyway

                         than these two, uh. these two  . . .

                         And he has the wealth, uh, the

                         resources obviously, and there is no

                         reason, no FUCKING reason, why his

                         wife should go out and owe money and

                         they pee on your rug.  Am I wrong?

                                     DUDE

                         No, but--

                                     WALTER

                         Am I wrong!

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, but--

                                     WALTER

                         Okay. That, uh.

               He elaborately clears his throat.

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

                                     DUDE

                         Fuckin' A.

                                     DONNY

                         And this guy peed on it.

                                     WALTER

                         Donny!  Please!

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, I could find this Lebowski guy--

                                     DONNY

                         His name is Lebowski?  That's your

                         name, Dude!

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, this is the guy, this guy should

                         compensate me for the fucking rug.

                         I mean his wife goes out and owes

                         money and they pee on my rug.

                                     WALTER

                         Thaaat's right Dude; they pee on

                         your fucking Rug.

               CLOSE ON A PLAQUE

               We pull back from the name JEFFREY LEBOWSKI engraved in

silver

               to reveal that the plaque, from Variety Clubs International,

               honors Lebowski as ACHIEVER OF THE YEAR.

               Reflected in the plaque we see the Dude entering the room

               with a YOUNG MAN.  We hear the two men talk:

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         And this is the study.  You can see

                         the various commendations, honorary

                         degrees, et cetera.

                                     DUDE

                         Yes, uh, very impressive.

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         Please, feel free to inspect them.

                                     DUDE

                         I'm not really, uh.

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         Please!  Please!

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.

               We are panning the walls, looking at various citations and

               certificates unrelated to the ones being discussed offscreen:

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         That's the key to the city of

                         Pasadena, which Mr. Lebowski was

                         given two years ago in recognition

                         of his various civic, uh.

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         That's a Los Angeles Chamber of

                         Commerce Business Achiever award,

                         which is given--not necessarily given

                         every year!  Given only when there's

                         a worthy, somebody especially--

                                     DUDE

                         Hey, is this him with Nancy?

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         That is indeed Mr. Lebowski with the

                         first lady, yes, taken when--

                                     DUDE

                         Lebowski on the right?

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         Of course, Mr. Lebowski on the right,

                         Mrs.  Reagan on the left, taken when--

                                     DUDE

                         He's handicapped, huh?

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         Mr. Lebowski is disabled, yes.  And

                         this picture was taken when Mrs.

                         Reagan was first lady of the nation,

                         yes, yes? Not of California.

                                     DUDE

                         Far out.

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         And in fact he met privately with

                         the President, though unfortunately

                         there wasn't time for a photo

                         opportunity.

                                     DUDE

                         Nancy's pretty good.

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         Wonderful woman.  We were very--

                                     DUDE

                         Are these.

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         These are Mr. Lebowski's children,

                         so to speak--

                                     DUDE

                         Different mothers, huh?

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         No, they--

                                     DUDE

                         I guess he's pretty, uh, racially

                         pretty cool--

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         They're not his, heh-heh, they're

                         not literally his children; they're

                         the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,

                         inner-city children of promise but

                         without the--

                                     DUDE

                         I see.

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         --without  the means  for higher

                         education, so Mr. Lebowski  has

                         committed  to sending  all of them

                         to college.

                                     DUDE

                         Jeez.  Think he's got room for one

                         more?

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         One--oh!  Heh-heh.  You never went

                         to college?

                                     DUDE

                         Well, yeah I did, but I spent most

                         of my time occupying various, um,

                         administration buildings--

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         Heh-heh--

                                     DUDE

                         --smoking thai-stick, breaking into

                         the ROTC--

                                     YOUNG MAN

                         Yes, heh--

                                     DUDE

                         --and bowling.  I'll tell you the

                         truth, Brandt, I don't remember most

                         of it.--Jeez!  Fuck me!

               Our continuing track and pan have brought us onto a framed

               Life Magazine cover which is headlined ARE YOU A LEBOWSKI

               ACHIEVER?  Oddly, the Dude's sunglassed face is on it; we

               realize that, under the magazine's logo and headline, the

               display is mirrored.

               We hear the door open and the whine of a motor.  The Dude,

               wearing shorts and a bowling shirt, turns to look.

               So does Brandt, the young man we've been listening to.  He

               wears a suit and has his hands clasped in front of his groin.

               Entering the room is a fat sixtyish man in a motorized

               wheelchair--Jeff Lebowski.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Okay sir, you're a Lebowski, I'm a

                         Lebowski, that's terrific, I'm very

                         busy so what can I do for you?

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

               as Brandt withdraws.

                                     DUDE

                         Well sir, it's this rug I have, really

                         tied the room together-

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         You told Brandt on the phone, he

                         told me.  So where do I fit in?

                                     DUDE

                         Well they were looking for you, these

                         two guys, they were trying to--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         I'll say it again, all right?  You

                         told Brandt.  He told me.  I know

                         what happened. Yes?  Yes?

                                     DUDE

                         So you know they were trying to piss

                         on your rug--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Did I urinate on your rug?

                                     DUDE

                         You mean, did you personally come

                         and pee on my--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Hello!  Do you speak English?  Parla

                         usted Inglese?  I'll say it again.

                         Did I urinate on your rug?

                                     DUDE

                         Well no, like I said, Woo peed on

                         the rug--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Hello!  Hello!  So every time--I

                         just want to understand this, sir--

                         every time a rug is micturated upon

                         in this fair city, I have to

                         compensate the--

                                     DUDE

                         Come on, man, I'm not trying to scam

                         anybody here, I'm just--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         You're just looking for a handout

                         like every other--are you employed,

                         Mr. Lebowski?

                                     DUDE

                         Look, let me explain something.

                         I'm not Mr. Lebowski;  you're Mr.

                         Lebowski.  I'm the Dude.  So that's

                         what  you  call me.  That, or Duder.

                         His  Dudeness.  Or El Duderino, if,

                         you know, you're not into the whole

                         brevity thing--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Are you employed, sir?

                                     DUDE

                         Employed?

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         You don't go out and make a living

                         dressed like that in the middle of a

                         weekday.

                                     DUDE

                         Is this a--what day is this?

                                     LEBOWSKI

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

                                     DUDE

                         No, look.  I do mind.  The Dude minds.

                         This will not stand, ya know, this

                         will not stand, man.  I mean, if

                         your wife owes--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         My wife is not the issue here. I

                         hope that my wife will someday learn

                         to live on her allowance, which is

                         ample, but if she doesn't, sir, that

                         will be her problem, not mine, just

                         as your rug is your problem, just as

                         every bum's lot in life is his own

                         responsibility regardless of whom he

                         chooses to blame.  I didn't blame

                         anyone for the loss of my legs, some

                         chinaman in Korea took them from me

                         but I went out and achieved anyway.

                         I can't solve your problems, sir,

                         only you can.

               The Dude rises.

                                     DUDE

                         Ah fuck it.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Sure!  Fuck it!  That's your answer!

                         Tattoo it on your forehead!  Your

                         answer to everything!

               The Dude is heading for the door.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Your "revolution" is over, Mr.

                         Lebowski!  Condolences!  The bums

                         lost!

               As the Dude opens the door.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         ...My advice is, do what your parents

                         did!  Get a job, sir!  The bums will

                         always lose-- do you hear me,

                         Lebowski?  THE BUMS WILL ALWAYS--

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

               himself--

                                     HALLWAY

                         --in a high coffered hallway.  Brandt

                         is approaching.

                                     BRANDT

                         How was your meeting, Mr. Lebowski?

                                     DUDE

                         Okay.  The old man told me to take

                         any rug in the house.

               WALKWAY

               A houseman with a rolled-up carpet on one shoulder goes down

               a stone walk that winds through the back lawn, past a

swimming

               pool to a garage.  Brandt and the Dude follow.

                                     BRANDT

                         Manolo will load it into your car

                         for you, uh, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         It's the LeBaron.

               DUDE'S POINT OF VIEW

               Tracking toward the pool.  A young woman sits facing it, her

               back to us, leaning forward to paint her toenails.

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

               pool.

                                     BRANDT

                         Well, enjoy, and perhaps we'll see

                         you again some time, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah sure, if I'm ever in the

                         neighborhood, need to use the john.

               CLOSER TRACK

               Arcing around the woman's foot as she finishes painting the

               nails emerald green.

               THE DUDE

               Looking.

               WIDER

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

               twenties.

               She leans back and extends her leg toward the Dude.

                                     YOUNG WOMAN

                         Blow on them.

               The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose and peeks over

               them.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

               She waggles her foot and giggles.

                                     YOUNG WOMAN

                         G'ahead.  Blow.

               The Dude tentatively grabs hold of her extended foot.

                                     DUDE

                         You want me to blow on your toes?

                                     YOUNG WOMAN

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

               The Dude looks over at the pool.

                                     DUDE

                         You sure he won't mind?

               The man bobbing in the inflatable chair is passed out.  He

               is thin, in his thirties, with long stringy blond hair.  He

               wears black leather pants and a black leather jacket, open,

               shirtless, exposing fine blond chest hair and pale skin.

               One arm trails off into the water; next to it, an empty

               whiskey bottle bobs.

                                     YOUNG WOMAN

                         Dieter doesn't care about anything.

                         He's a nihilist.

                                     DUDE

                         Practicing?

               The young woman smiles.

                                     YOUNG WOMAN

                         You're not blowing.

               Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.

                                     BRANDT

                         Our guest has to be getting along,

                         Mrs.  Lebowski.

               The Dude grudgingly allows himself to be led away, still

               looking at the young woman.

                                     DUDE

                         You're Bunny?

                                     BUNNY

                         I'll suck your cock for a thousand

                         dollars.

               Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:

                                     BRANDT

                         Ha-ha-ha-ha!  Wonderful woman.  Very

                         free-spirited.  We're all very fond

                         of her.

                                     BUNNY

                         Brandt can't watch though.  Or he

                         has to pay a hundred.

                                     BRANDT

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

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

               SHOULDER:

                                     DUDE

                         I'm just gonna find a cash machine.

               BOWLING PINS

               Scattered by a strike.

               THE BOWLERS

               Donny calls out from the bench:

                                     DONNY

                         Grasshopper Dude--They're dead in

                         the water!!

               As the Dude walks back to the scoring table he turns to

               another team in black bowling shirts--the Cavaliers--that

               shares the lane.

                                     DUDE

                         Your maples, Carl.

               Walter, just arriving, is carrying a leatherette satchel in

               one hand and a large plastic carrier in the other.

                                     WALTER

                         Way to go, Dude.  If you will it, it

                         is no dream.

                                     DUDE

                         You're fucking twenty minutes late.

                         What the fuck is that?

                                     WALTER

                         Theodore Herzel.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

                                     WALTER

                         State of Israel.  If you will it,

                         Dude, it is no--

                                     DUDE

                         What the fuck're you talking about?

                         The carrier.  What's in the fucking

                         carrier?

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?  Oh--Cynthia's Pomeranian.

                         Can't leave him home alone or he

                         eats the furniture.

                                     DUDE

                         What the fuck are you--

                                     WALTER

                         I'm saying, Cynthia's Pomeranian.

                         I'm looking after it while Cynthia

                         and Marty Ackerman are in Hawaii.

                                     DUDE

                         You brought a fucking Pomeranian

                         bowling?

                                     WALTER

                         What do you mean "brought it bowling"?

                         I didn't rent it shoes.  I'm not

                         buying it a fucking beer.  He's not

                         gonna take your fucking turn, Dude.

               He lets the small yapping dog out of the carrier.  It scoots

               around the bowling table, sniffing at bowlers and wagging

               its tail.

                                     DUDE

                         Hey, man, if my fucking ex-wife asked

                         me to take care of her fucking dog

                         while she and her boyfriend went to

                         Honolulu, I'd tell her to go fuck

                         herself.  Why can't she board it?

                                     WALTER

                         First of all, Dude, you don't have

                         an ex, secondly, it's a fucking show

                         dog with fucking papers.  You can't

                         board it.  It gets upset, its hair

                         falls out.

                                     DUDE

                         Hey man--

                                     WALTER

                         Fucking dog has papers, Dude.--Over

                         the line!

               Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.

                                     WALTER

                         Smokey Huh?

                                     WALTER

                         Over the line, Smokey!  I'm sorry.

                         That's a foul.

                                     SMOKEY

                         Bullshit.  Eight, Dude.

                                     WALTER

                         Excuse me!  Mark it zero.  Next frame.

                                     SMOKEY

                         Bullshit. Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         This is not Nam.  This is bowling.

                         There are rules.

                                     DUDE

                         Come on Walter, it's just--it's

                         Smokey.  So his toe slipped over a

                         little, it's just a game.

                                     WALTER

                         This is a league game.  This

                         determines who enters the next round-

                         robin, am I wrong?

                                     SMOKEY

                         Yeah, but--

                                     WALTER

                         Am I wrong!?

                                     SMOKEY

                         Yeah, but I wasn't over.  Gimme the

                         marker, Dude,  I'm marking it an

                         eight.

               Walter takes out a gun.

                                     WALTER

                         Smokey my friend, you're entering a

                         world of pain.

                                     DUDE

                         Hey Walter--

                                     WALTER

                         Mark that frame an eight, you're

                         entering a world of pain.

                                     SMOKEY

                         I'm not--

                                     WALTER

                         A world of pain.

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

               phone.

                                     SMOKEY

                         Look Dude, I don't hold with this.

                         This guy is your partner, you should--

               Walter primes the gun and points it at his head.

                                     WALTER

                         HAS THE WHOLE WORLD GONE CRAZY?  AM

                         I THE ONLY ONE HERE WHO GIVES A SHIT

                         ABOUT THE RULES?  MARK IT ZERO!

               The Pomeranian is excitedly yapping at Walter's elbow, making

               high body-twisting tail-wagging leaps.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, they're calling the cops,

                         put the piece away.

                                     WALTER

                         MARK IT ZERO!

                                     SMOKEY

                         Walter--

                                     WALTER

                         YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND HERE?

                         MARK IT ZERO!!

                                     SMOKEY

                         All right!  There it is!  It's fucking

                         zero!

               He points frantically at the score projected above the lane.

                                     SMOKEY

                         You happy, you crazy fuck?

                                     WALTER

                         This is a league game, Smokey!

               PARKING LOT

               Walter and the Dude walk to the Dude's car.  The Pomeranian

               trots happily behind Walter who totes the empty carrier.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, you can't do that.  These

                         guys're like me, they're pacificists.

                         Smokey was a conscientious objector.

                                     WALTER

                         You know Dude, I myself dabbled with

                         pacifism at one point.  Not in Nam,

                         of course--

                                     DUDE

                         And you know Smokey has emotional

                         problems!

                                     WALTER

                         You mean--beyond pacifism?

                                     DUDE

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

               As the two men get into the car:

                                     WALTER

                         Huh.  I did not know that.  Well,

                         it's water under the bridge.  And we

                         do enter the next round-robin, am I

                         wrong?

                                     DUDE

                         No, you're not wrong--

                                     WALTER

                         Am I wrong!

                                     DUDE

                         You're not wrong, Walter, you're

                         just an asshole.

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

                                     WALTER

                         Okay then.  We play Quintana and

                         O'Brien next week.  They'll be

                         pushovers.

                                     DUDE

                         Just, just take it easy, Walter.

                                     WALTER

                         That's your answer to everything,

                         Dude.  And let me point out--pacifism

                         is not--look at our current situation

                         with that camelfucker in Iraq--

                         pacifism is not something to hide

                         behind.

                                     DUDE

                         Well, just take 't easy, man.

                                     WALTER

                         I'm perfectly calm, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah?  Wavin' a gun around?!

                                     WALTER

                              (smugly)

                         Calmer than you are.

               -his irritates the Dude further.

                                     DUDE

                         Just take it easy, man!

               Walter is still smug.

                                     WALTER

                         Calmer than you are.

               DUDE'S HOUSE

               A large, brilliant Persian rug lies beneath the Dude's beat-

               up old furniture.

               At the table next to the answering machine the Dude is mixing

               kalhua, rum and milk.

                                     VOICE

                         Dude, this is Smokey.  Look, I don't

                         wanna be a hard-on about this, and I

                         know it wasn't your fault, but I

                         just thought it was fair to tell you

                         that Gene and I will be submitting

                         this to the League and asking them

                         to set aside the round.  Or maybe

                         forfeit it to us--

                                     DUDE

                         Shit!

                                     VOICE

                         --so, like I say, just thought, you

                         know, fair warning.  Tell Walter.

               A beep.

                                     ANOTHER VOICE

                         Mr. Lebowski, this is Brandt at, uh,

                         well--at Mr. Lebowski's office.

                         Please call us as soon as is

                         convenient.

               Beep.

                                     ANOTHER VOICE

                         Mr. Lebowski, this is Fred Dynarski

                         with the Southern Cal Bowling League.

                         I just got a, an informal report,

                         uh, that a uh, a member of your team,

                         uh, Walter Sobchak, drew a loaded

                         weapon during league play--

               We hear the doorbell.

               THE DOOR

               It swings open to reveal a short, hairy, muscular but balding

               middle-aged man in a black T-shirt and black cut-off jeans.

                                     DUDE

                         Hiya Allan.

                                     ALLAN

                         Dude, I finally got the venue I

                         wanted.  I'm Performing my dance

                         quintet--you know, my cycle--at Crane

                         Jackson's Fountain Street Theatre on

                         Tuesday night, and I'd love it if

                         you came and gave me notes.

               The Dude takes a swig of his kalhua.

                                     DUDE

                         Sure Allan, I'll be there.

                                     ALLAN

                         Dude, uh, tomorrow is already the

                         tenth.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, yeah I know. Okay.

                                     ALLAN

                         Just, uh, just slip the rent under

                         my door.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, okay.

               BACK IN THE LIVING ROOM

               The  voice continues on the machine.

                                     VOICE

                         --serious infraction, and examine

                         your standing.  Thank you.  Beep.

                                     VOICE

                         Mr. Lebowski, Brandt again.  Please

                         do call us when you get in and I'll

                         send the limo.  Let me assure you--I

                         hope you're not avoiding this call

                         because of the rug, which, I assure

                         you, is not a problem.  We need your

                         help and, uh--well we would very

                         much like to see you.  Thank you.

                         It's Brandt.

               TRACKING

               We are pushing Brandt down the high-ceilinged hallway.

               Distantly, we hear a dolorous soprano.  Brandt talks back

               over

               HIS SHOULDER:

                                     BRANDT

                         We've had some terrible news.  Mr.

                         Lebowski is in seclusion in the West

                         Wing.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh.

               Brandt throws open a pair of heavy double doors.  The music

               washes over us as we enter a great study where Jeffrey

               Lebowski, a blanket thrown over his knees, stares hauntedly

               into a fire, listening to Lohengrin.

               BRANDT ANNOUNCES, AMBIGUOUSLY:

                                     BRANDT

                         Mr. Lebowski.

               Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         It's funny.  I can look back on a

                         life of achievement, on challenges

                         met, competitors bested, obstacles

                         overcome.  I've accomplished more

                         than most men, and without the use

                         of my legs.  What. . . What makes a

                         man, Mr. Lebowski?

                                     DUDE

                         Dude.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Huh?

                                     DUDE

                         I don't know, sir.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Is it. . . is it, being prepared to

                         do the right thing?  Whatever the

                         price?  Isn't that what makes a man?

                                     DUDE

                         Sure.  That and a pair of testicles.

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

               in thought.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         You're joking.  But perhaps you're

                         right.

               The Dude thumps at his chest pocket.

                                     DUDE

                         Mind if I smoke a jay?

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Bunny.

               He turns back around and the firelight shows teartracks on

               his cheeks.

                                     DUDE

                         'Scuse me?

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Bunny Lebowski. . . She is the light

                         of my life.  Are you surprised at my

                         tears, sir?

                                     DUDE

                         Fuckin' A.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Strong men also cry. . . Strong men

                         also cry.

               He clears his throat.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         I received this fax this morning.

               Brandt hastily pulls a flimsy sheet from his clipboard and

               hands it to the Dude.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         As you can see, it is a ransom note.

                         Sent by cowards.  Men who are unable

                         to achieve on a level field of play.

                         Men who will not sign their names.

                         Weaklings.  Bums.

               THE DUDE EXAMINES THE FAX:

               WE HAVE BUNNY.  GATHER ONE MILLION DOLLARS IN UNMARKED NON-

               CONSECUTIVE TWENTIES.  AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.  NO FUNNY STUFF.

                                     DUDE

                         Bummer.

               Lebowski looks soulfully at the Dude.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Brandt will fill you in on the

                         details.

               He wheels his chair around to once again gaze into the fire.

               Brandt tugs at the Dude's shirt and points him back to the

               hall.

               HALLWAY

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

               is hushed:

                                     BRANDT

                         Mr. Lebowski is prepared to make a

                         generous offer to you to act as

                         courier once we get instructions for

                         the money.

                                     DUDE

                         Why me, man?

                                     BRANDT

                         He suspects that the culprits might

                         be the very people who, uh, soiled

                         your rug, and you're in a unique

                         position to confirm or, uh, disconfirm

                         that suspicion.

                                     DUDE

                         So he thinks it's the carpet-pissers,

                         huh?

                                     BRANDT

                         Well Dude, we just don't know.

               BOWLING PINS

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

               WIDER

               Still in slow motion.  We are looking across the length of

               the bowling alley at a tall, thin, Hispanic bowler displaying

               perfect form.  He wears an all-in-one dacron-polyester

stretch

               bowling outfit with a racing stripe down each side.

               FAST TRACK IN

               On the Dude, sitting next to Walter in the molded plastic

               chairs. The Dude is staring off towards the bowler.

                                     DUDE

                         Fucking Quintana--that creep can

                         roll, man--

               BACK TO THE BOWLER

               Displaying great slow-motion form as the Dude and Walter's

               conversation continues over.

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah, but he's a fucking pervert,

                         Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

                                     WALTER

                         The man is a sex offender.  With a

                         record.  Spent six months in Chino

                         for exposing himself to an eight-

                         year-old.

               FLASHBACK

               We see Quintana, in pressed jeans and a stretchy sweater,

               walking up a stoop in a residential neighborhood and zinging

               the bell.

               The VOICE-OVER conversation continues.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh.

                                     WALTER

                         When he moved down to Venice he had

                         to go door-to-door to tell everyone

                         he's a pederast.

               The door swings open and a beer-swilling middle-aged man

               looks dully out at Quintana, who looks hesitantly up.

                                     DONNY

                         What's a pederast, Walter?

                                     WALTER

                         Shut the fuck up, Donny.

               PINS

               scattered by a strike.

               QUINTANA

               wheeling and thrusting a black gloved fist into the air.

               Stitched above the breast pocket of his all-in-one is his

               first name, "Jesus".

               BACK TO WALTER AND THE DUDE

               They have been joined by Donny.

                                     WALTER

                         Anyway.  How much they offer you?

                                     DUDE

                         Twenty grand.  And of course I still

                         keep the rug.

                                     WALTER

                         Just for making the hand-off?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.

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

                                     DUDE

                         ...They  gave  Dude  a  beeper,  so

                         whenever these guys call--

                                     WALTER

                         What if it's during a game?

                                     DUDE

                         I told him if it was during league

                         play--

               Donny has been watching Quintana.

                                     DONNY

                         If what's during league play?

                                     WALTER

                         Life does not stop and start at your

                         convenience, you miserable piece of

                         shit.

                                     DONNY

                         What's wrong with Walter, Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         I figure it's easy money, it's all

                         pretty harmless.  I mean she probably

                         kidnapped herself.

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?

                                     DONNY

                         What do you mean, Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         Rug-peers did not do this.  I mean

                         look at it.  Young trophy wife.

                         Marries a guy for money but figures

                         he isn't giving her enough.  She

                         owes money all over town--

                                     WALTER

                         That...fucking...bitch!

                                     DUDE

                         It's all a goddamn fake.  Like Lenin

                         said, look for the person who will

                         benefit.  And you will, uh, you know,

                         you'll, uh, you know what I'm trying

                         to say--

                                     DONNY

                         I am the Walrus.

                                     WALTER

                         That fucking bitch!

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.

                                     DONNY

                         I am the Walrus.

                                     WALTER

                         Shut the fuck up, Donny!  V.I. Lenin!

                         Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!

                                     DONNY

                         What the fuck is he talking about?

                                     WALTER

                         That's fucking exactly what happened,

                         Dude!  That makes me fucking SICK!

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, well, what do you care, Walter?

                                     DONNY

                         Yeah Dude, why is Walter so pissed

                         off?

                                     WALTER

                         Those rich fucks!  This whole fucking

                         thing-- I did not watch my buddies

                         die face down in the muck so that

                         this fucking strumpet--

                                     DUDE

                         I don't see any connection to Vietnam,

                         Walter.

                                     WALTER

                         Well, there isn't a literal

                         connection, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, face it, there isn't any

                         connection.  It's your roll.

                                     WALTER

                         Have it your way.  The point is--

                                     DUDE

                         It's your roll--

                                     WALTER

                         The fucking point is--

                                     DUDE

                         It's your roll.

                                     VOICE

                         Are you ready to be fucked, man?

               They both look up.

               Quintana, on his way out, looks down at them from the lip of

               the lanes.  Over his polyester all-in-one he now wears a

               windbreaker with a racing stripe and "Jesus" stitched on the

               breast.  He is holding a fancy black-and-red leather ball

               satchel (perhaps a Sylvia Wein).  Behind him stands his

               partner, O'Brien, a short fat Irishman with tufted red hair.

                                     QUINTANA

                         I see you rolled your way into the

                         semis.  Deos mio, man.  Seamus and

                         me, we're gonna fuck you up.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah well, that's just, ya know,

                         like, your opinion, man.

               Quintana looks at Walter.

                                     QUINTANA

                         Let me tell you something, bendeco.

                         You pull any your crazy shit with

                         us, you flash a piece out on the

                         lanes, I'll take it away from you

                         and stick it up your ass and pull

                         the fucking trigger til it goes

                         "click".

                                     DUDE

                         Jesus.

                                     QUINTANA

                         You said it, man.  Nobody fucks with

                         the Jesus.

               Jesus walks away.  Walter nods sadly.

                                     WALTER

                         Eight-year-olds, Dude.

               DUDE'S BUNGALOW

               We are looking down at the Dude who is prone on the rug.

               His eyes are closed.  He wears a Walkman headset.  Leaking

               tinnily through the headphones we can just hear an

               intermittent clatter.

               In his outflung hand lies a cassette case labeled VENICE

               BEACH LEAGUE PLAYOFFS 1987.

               The Dude absently licks his lips as we faintly hear a hall

               rumbling down the lane.  On its impact with the pins, the

               Dude opens his eyes.

               He screams.

               A blonde woman looms over him.  Next to  her a  young man

               in paint-spattered denims stoops and swings something towards

               the carrier.

               The sap catches the Dude on the chin and sends  his head

               thunking back onto the rug.

               A million stars explode against a field of black.  We hear

               the "La-la-la-la" of The Man in Me.

               The black field  dissolves into  the pattern  of the  rug.

               The rug rolls away to reveal an aerial view of  the city  of

               Los  Angeles at twilight, moving below us at great speed.

               The Dude is flying over the city, his arms thrown out in

               front of him, the wind whipping his hair and billowing his

               bowling shirt. He looks up.

               Ahead the mysterious blonde woman wings away, riding on the

               Dude's rug like a sheik on a magic carpet.  She is outpacing

               us, growing smaller.

               The Dude does a couple of lazy crawl strokes and then notices

               that a bowling ball has materialized in his forward hand.

               His bemusement turns to concern over the aerodynamic

               implications just as the ball seems to suddenly assume its

               weight, abruptly snapping his arm down, and him after it. He

               is falling. From a high angle we see the Dude hurtling down

               toward the city, dragged by the ball.

               A  reverse  looking  up shows  the Dude  hurtling toward  us

               out  of the inky  sky,  his eyes  wide with  horror.  Led by

               the bowling  ball, he zooms past the camera leaving us in

               black.

               We hear a distant rumble, like thunder.  Dull reflections

               materialize in the darkness.  They are glints off the shiny

               surface of an oncoming bowling ball.

               We pull back to reveal that the blackness was the inside of

               a ball return, and the gleaming bowling ball is being

               regurgitated up at us, overtaking us.

               The Dude looks up, up, up at the looming ball, its mass

               rolling a huge shadow across his face.

               The gleaming ball shows three dead black holes rolling toward

               us --finger holes.

               The largest--thumb--hole rolls directly over us, engulfing

               us once again in black..

               The black rolls away and we are spinning--spinning down a

               bowling lane--our point of view that of someone trapped in

               the thumbhole of the rolling ball.

               We see the receding bowler spinning away.  It is the blonde

               woman, performing her follow-through.

               Floor spins up at us and then away; ceiling spins up and

               away; the length of the alley with pins at the end; floor;

               ceiling; approaching pins; again and again.

               We hit the pins and clatter into blackness.  We hear pins

               spin, hit each other and drop.

               We hear an irritating, insistent beeping.

               FADE IN

               We are close on the Dude, upside down.  As the picture fades

               in the bowling noises continue, but filtered and faint.

               They come from the Dude's Walkman, the headset of which is

               now askew, with one arm off his ear.

               As the Dude opens his eyes we spiral slowly upward to put

               him right side around.  His head is now resting against

               hardwood floor, not rug.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh man.

               He  raises  himself  onto  his  elbows  and  massages  the

               red   lump  on his  jaw.  The  beeper  on his  belt is

               blinking red  in sync  with the continuing irritating beeps.

               WIDE ON THE ROOM

               An  end  table  is  upset,  but  otherwise the  furniture is

               in place. The rug is gone.

               The  Dude  looks  around.    The  bowling sounds  continue.

               The beeps continue.

               The phone starts to jangle.

               TRACK

               We  push  Brandt  down  the  familiar  marble  hallway.

               Again  there is a  distant  aria.    Brandt  throws  out a

               wrist to  look at  his watch.

                                     BRANDT

                         They called about eighty minutes

                         ago.  They want you to take the money

                         and drive north on the 4 5.  They'll

                         call you on the portable phone with

                         instructions in about forty minutes.

                         One person only or I'd go with you.

                         They were very clear on that: one

                         person only.  What happened to your

                         jaw?

                                     DUDE

                         Oh, nothin', you know.

               They have reached the little desk outside of the big

               Lebowski's office; Brandt opens its bottom drawer with a key

               and takes out an attache case.  He hands this to the Dude

               along with a cellular phone in a battery-pack carrying case.

                                     BRANDT

                         Here's the money, and the phone.

                         Please, Dude, follow whatever

                         instructions they give.

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     BRANDT

                         Her life is in your hands.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh, man, don't say that..

                                     BRANDT

                         Mr. Lebowski asked me to repeat that:

                         Her life is in your hands.

                                     DUDE

                         Shit.

                                     BRANDT

                         Her life is in your hands, Dude.

                         And report back to us as soon as

                         it's done.

               DUDE'S CAR

               We pan off the Dude, driving, to his point of view through

               the front windshield.  The headlights play over Walter

               standing waiting in front of the storefront of SOBCHAK

               SECURITY.  Though he is wearing khaki shorts and shirt, the

               fact that he holds a battered brown briefcase makes him look

               oddly like a commuter.  He also holds an irregular shape

               bundled in brown wrapping paper.

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

               and hands in the briefcase.

                                     WALTER

                         Take the ringer.  I'll drive.

               The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.

                                     DUDE

                         The what?

                                     WALTER

                         The ringer!  The ringer, Dude!  Have

                         they called yet?

               The Dude opens the briefcase and paws bemusedly through it

               as the car starts rolling.

                                     DUDE

                         What the hell is this?

                                     WALTER

                         My dirty undies.  Laundry, Dude.

                         The whites.

                                     DUDE

                         Agh--

               He closes the briefcase.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, I'm sure there's a reason

                         you brought your dirty undies--

                                     WALTER

                         Thaaaat's right, Dude.  The weight.

                         The ringer can't look empty.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter--what the fuck are you

                         thinking?

                                     WALTER

                         Well you're right, Dude, I got to

                         thinking.  I got to thinking why

                         should we settle for a measly fucking

                         twenty grand--

                                     DUDE

                         We?  What the fuck we?  You said you

                         just wanted to come along--

                                     WALTER

                         My point, Dude, is why should we

                         settle for twenty grand when we can

                         keep the entire million.  Am I wrong?

                                     DUDE

                         Yes you're wrong.  This isn't a

                         fucking game, Walter--

                                     WALTER

                         It is a fucking game.  You said so

                         yourself, Dude--she kidnapped herself--

                                     DUDE '

                         Yeah, but--

               The phone chirps.  Dude grabs it.

                                     DUDE

                         Dude here.

                                     VOICE

                              (German accent)

                         Who is this?

                                     DUDE

                         Dude the Bagman.  Where do you want

                         us to go?

                                     VOICE

                         ...Us?

                         DUDE

               Shit. . . Uh, yeah, you know, me and the driver.  I'm not

               handling the money and driving the car and talking on the

               phone all by my fucking--

                                     VOICE

                         Shut the fuck up.

                              (Beat)

                         Hello?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah?

                                     VOICE

                         Okay, listen--

               Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:

                                     WALTER

                         Dude, are you fucking this up?

                                     VOICE

                         Who is that?

                                     DUDE

                         The driver man, I told you--

               Click.  Dial tone.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh shit.  Walter.

                                     WALTER

                         What the fuck is going on there?

                                     DUDE

                         They hung up, Walter!  You fucked it

                         up!  You fucked it up!  Her life was

                         in our hands!

                                     WALTER

                         Easy, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         We're screwed now!  We don't get

                         shit and they're gonna kill her!

                         We're fucked, Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         Dude, nothing is fucked.  Come on.

                         You're being very unDude.  They'll

                         call back.  Look, she kidnapped her--

               The phone chirps.

                                     WALTER

                         Ya see?  Nothing is fucked up here,

                         Dude.  Nothing is fucked.  These

                         guys are fucking amateurs--

                                     DUDE

                         Shutup, Walter!  Don't fucking say

                         peep when I'm doing business here.

                                     WALTER

                              (patronizing)

                         Okay Dude.  Have it your way.

               The Dude unclips the phone from the battery pack.

                                     WALTER

                         But they're amateurs.

               The Dude glares at Walter.  Into the phone:

                                     DUDE

                         Dude here.

                                     VOICE

                         Okay, vee proceed.  But only if there

                         is no funny stuff.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.

                                     VOICE

                         So no funny stuff.  Okay?

                                     DUDE

                         Hey, just tell me where the fuck you

                         want us to go.

               A HIGHWAY SIGN:  SIMI VALLEY ROAD

               It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.

                                     DUDE

                         That was the sign.

               Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah.  So as long as we get her back,

                         nobody's in a position to complain.

                         And we keep the baksheesh.

                                     DUDE

                         Terrific, Walter.  But you haven't

                         told me how we get her back.  Where

                         is she?

                                     WALTER

                         That's the simple part, Dude.  When

                         we make the handoff, I grab the guy

                         and beat  it out of him.

               He looks at the Dude.

                                     WALTER

                         ...Huh?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.  That's a great plan, Walter.

                         That's fucking ingenious, if I

                         understand it correctly.  That's a

                         Swiss fucking watch.

                                     WALTER

                         Thaaat's right, Dude.  The beauty of

                         this is its simplicity. If the plan

                         gets too complex something always

                         goes wrong.  If there's one thing I

                         learned in Nam--

               The phone chirps.

                                     DUDE

                         Dude.

                                     VOICE

                         You are approaching a vooden britch.

                         When you cross it you srow ze bag

                         from ze left vindow of ze moving

                         kar.  Do not slow down.  Vee vatch

                         you.

               Click.  Dial tone.

                                     DUDE

                         FUCK.

                                     WALTER

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

                         off?

                                     DUDE

                         There is no fucking hand-off, Walter!

                         At a wooden bridge we throw the money

                         out  of the car!

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?

                                     DUDE

                         We throw the money out of the moving

                         car!

               Walter stares dumbly for a beat.

                                     WALTER

                         We can't do that, Dude.  That fucks

                         up our plan.

                                     DUDE

                         Well call them up and explain it to

                         'em, Walter!  Your plan is so fucking

                         simple, I'm sure they'd fucking

                         understand it!  That's the beauty of

                         it Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         Wooden bridge, huh?

                                     DUDE

                         I'm throwing the money, Walter!

                         We're not fucking around!

                                     WALTER

                         The bridge is coming up!  Gimme the

                         ringer, Dude!  Chop-chop!

                                     DUDE

                         Fuck that!  I love you, Walter, but

                         sooner or later you're gonna have to

                         face the fact that you're a goddamn

                         moron.

                                     WALTER

                         Okay, Dude.  No time to argue.  Here's

                         the bridge--

               There is the bump and new steady of the car on the bridge.

               The Dude is twisting around to pull the money briefcase from

               the back seat.  Walter reaches one arm across Dude's body to

               grab the laundry.

               And there goes the ringer.

               He flings it out the window.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         Your wheel, Dude!  I'm rolling out!

                                     DUDE

                         What the fuck?

                                     WALTER

                         Your wheel!  At fifteen em-pee-aitch

                         I roll out!  I double back, grab one

                         of 'em and beat it out of him!  The

                         uzi!

                                     DUDE

                         Uzi?

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

                                     WALTER

                         You didn't think I was rolling out

                         of here naked!

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, please--

               Walter has flung open his door and is leaning halfway out

               over the road.

                                     WALTER

                         Fifteen!  This is it, Dude!  Let's

                         take that hill!

               Walter rolls out with his parcel, giving a loud grunt as he

               hits the pavement.  The car swerves and lurches and the Dude,

               cursing, takes the wheel.

               OUTSIDE

               Walter tumbles onto the shoulder

and--RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!--muzzle

               flashes tear open the wrapping paper.

               INSIDE THE CAR

               The car rocks and the Dude wrestles with the wheel.

               OUTSIDE

               The car clunks and screams around in a skid.

               INSIDE

               The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something.

               OUTSIDE

               As the Dude struggles out holding the satchel of money. The

               front of his car is crumpled into a tree.  The car body saps

               back to the left, where the rear wheel has been shot out.

               WALTER  is  just  rising  from  the  ground  massaging an

               injured knee.

               The  Dude  runs  up  the  road  toward  the bridge,

               frantically waving the satchel in the air.

                                     DUDE

                         WE HAVE IT!  WE HAVE IT!!

               There is a distant engine roar.  A motorcycle bumps up onto

               the road from the ravine under the bridge and, tires

               squealing, skids around to speed away in the opposite

               direction.  It is closely followed by two more roaring

               motorcycles.

                                     DUDE

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

               The Dude and Walter stand in the middle of the road, watching

               the three red tail lights fishtail away.

               AFTER A LONG STARING SILENCE:

                                     WALTER

                         Ahh fuck it, let's go bowling.

               BOWLING LANE

               A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.

               WALTER.

               He turns from the lane to where the Dude sits in the nook of

               molded plastic chairs.  The Dude listlessly holds the

portable

               phone in his lap.  It is ringing.

                                     WALTER

                         Aitz chaim he, Dude.  As the ex used

                         to say.

                                     DUDE

                         What the fuck is that supposed to

                         mean?  What the fuck're we gonna

                         tell Lebowski?

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?  Oh, him, yeah.  Well I don't

                         see, um-- what exactly is the problem?

               The portable phone stops ringing.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?  The problem is--what do you

                         mean what's the--there's no--we didn't--

                         they're gonna kill that poor woman--

                                     WALTER

                         What the fuck're you talking about?

                         That poor woman--that poor slut--

                         kidnapped herself, Dude.  You said

                         so yourself--

                                     DUDE

                         No, Walter!  I said I thought she

                         kidnapped herself!  You're the one

                         who's so fucking certain--

                                     WALTER

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

               Donny is trotting excitedly up.

                                     DONNY

                         They posted the next round of the

                         tournament--

                                     WALTER

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

                                     DONNY

                         This Saturday.  Quintana and--

                                     WALTER

                         Saturday!  Well they'll have to

                         reschedule.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, what'm I gonna tell Lebowski?

                                     WALTER

                         I told that fuck down at the league

                         office-- who's in charge of

                         scheduling?

                                     DUDE

                         Walter--

                                     DONNY

                         Burkhalter.

                                     WALTER

                         I told that kraut a fucking thousand

                         times I don't roll on shabbas.

                                     DONNY

                         It's already posted.

                                     WALTER

                         WELL THEY CAN FUCKING UN-POST IT!

                                     DUDE

                         Who gives a shit, Walter?  What about

                         that poor woman?  What do we tell--

                                     WALTER

                         C'mon Dude, eventually she'll get

                         sick of her little game and, you

                         know, wander back--

                                     DONNY

                         How come you don't roll on Saturday,

                         Walter?

                                     WALTER

                         I'm shomer shabbas.

                                     DONNY

                         What's that, Walter?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, and in the meantime what do I

                         tell Lebowski?

                                     WALTER

                         Saturday is shabbas.  Jewish day of

                         rest.  Means I don't work, I don't

                         drive a car, I don't fucking ride in

                         a car, I don't handle money, I don't

                         turn on the oven, and I sure as shit

                         don't fucking roll!

                                     DONNY

                         Sheesh.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, how--

                                     WALTER

                         Shomer shabbas.

               The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.

                                     DUDE

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

                                     WALTER

                         For Christ's sake, Dude.

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

               alley.

               Hell, you just tell him--well, you tell him, uh, we made the

               hand-off, everything went, uh, you know--

                                     DONNY

                         Oh yeah, how'd it go?

                                     WALTER

                         Went alright.  Dude's car got a little

                         dinged up--

                                     DUDE

                         But Walter, we didn't make the fucking

                         hand- off!  They didn't get, the

                         fucking money and they're gonna--

                         they're gonna--

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah yeah, "kill that poor woman."

               He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.

                                     WALTER

                         Kill that poor woman.

                                     DONNY

                         Walter, if you can't ride in a car,

                         how d'you get around on Shammas--

                                     WALTER

                         Really, Dude, you surprise me.

                         They're not gonna kill shit.  They're

                         not gonna do shit.  What can they

                         do?  Fuckin' amateurs.  And meanwhile,

                         look at the bottom line.  Who's

                         sitting on a million fucking dollars?

                         Am I wrong?

                                     DUDE

                         Walter--

                                     WALTER

                         Who's got a fucking million fucking

                         dollars parked in the trunk of our

                         car out here?

                                     DUDE

                         "Our" car, Walter?

                                     WALTER

                         And what do they got, Dude?  My dirty

                         undies.  My fucking whites--Say,

                         where is  the car?

               The three bowlers, stopped at the edge of the lot, stare out

               at an empty parking space.

                                     DONNY

                         Who has your undies, Walter?

                                     WALTER

                         Where's your car, Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         You don't know, Walter?  You seem to

                         know the answer to everything else!

                                     WALTER

                         Hmm.  Well, we were in a handicapped

                         spot.  It, uh, it was probably towed.

                                     DUDE

                         It's been stolen, Walter!  You fucking

                         know it's been stolen!

                                     WALTER

                         Well, certainly that's a possibility,

                         Dude--

                                     DUDE

                         Aw, fuck it.

               The Dude walks away across the lot.  The portable phone

starts

               ringing again.

                                     DONNY

                         Where you going, Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         I'm going home, Donny.

                                     DONNY

                         Your phone's ringing, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Thank you, Donny.

               DUDE'S LIVING ROOM

               The Dude is slumped disconsolately back in his easy chair,

               fingers of one hand cupped over his sunglasses.  Facing him

               on the couch are two uniformed policeman, one middle-aged,

               the other a fresh-faced rookie.

               At the cut the portable phone, in the Dude's lap, is

chirping.

               The Dude waits for the rings to end.  When they do:

                                     DUDE

                         1972 Pontiac LeBaron.

                                     YOUNGER COP

                         Color?

                                     DUDE

                         Green.  Some brown, or, uh, rust,

                         coloration.

                                     YOUNGER COP

                         And was there anything of value in

                         the car?

               DULLY:

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?  Oh.  Yeah.  Tape deck.  Couple

                         of Creedence tapes.  And there was

                         a, uh. . . my briefcase.

                                     YOUNGER COP

                         In the briefcase?

                                     DUDE

                         Papers.  Just papers.  You know, my

                         papers.  Business papers.

                                     YOUNGER COP

                         And what do you do, sir?

                                     DUDE

                         I'm unemployed.

                                     OLDER COP

                         ...Most people, we're working nights,

                         they offer us coffee.

               There is silence.  Dude continues to stare at a spot on the

               floor.  The older cop stares at him.

                                     DUDE

                         ...Me, I don't drink coffee.  But

                         it's nice when they offer.

               AT LENGTH:

                                     DUDE

                         ...Also, my rug was stolen.

                                     YOUNGER COP

                         Your rug was in the car.

               The Dude taps the floor with his foot.

                                     DUDE

                         No.  Here.

                                     YOUNGER COP

                         Separate incidents?

               The Dude stares at the floor.

               Silence.

                                     OLDER COP

                         Snap out of it, son.

               The home phone starts ringing--a ring distinct  from the

               chirp of the portable.  The Dude makes no move to answer

               it.   Finally the rings stop as an answering machine kicks

               on.

                                     DUDE

                         You find them much?  Stolen cars?

               Dude's Voice on Machine The Dude's not in.  Leave a message

               after the beep.  It takes a minute.

                                     YOUNGER COP

                         Sometimes.  I wouldn't hold out much

                         hope for the tape deck though.  Or

                         the Creedence tapes.

                                     DUDE

                         And the, uh, the briefcase?

               Beep.

                                     FEMALE VOICE ON MACHINE

                         Mr. Lebowski, I'd like to see you.

                         Call when you get home and I'll send

                         a car for you.  My name is Maude

                         Lebowski.  I'm the woman who took

                         the rug.

               Beep.  Dial tone.

                                     OLDER COP

                         Well, I guess we can close the file

                         on that one.

               TRACKING FORWARD

               We are moving through the open living area of a large

downtown

               L.A. loft.  A huge unfinished canvas,  lit by  standing

               industrial lights, dominates one wall.  The furnishings  are

               spare  given the space.  On the floor is the Dude's brilliant

               rug.

               We hear a rumble like an approaching bowling ball.  The Dude,

               standing in the middle of the loft, looks into the murky

               depths of the cavernous space.

               Something huge and white hurtles towards the Dude's head.

               As it roars overhead he ducks, and spins to watch it pass.

               We see the backside of a naked woman in a sling suspended

               from a ceiling track rumbling over a canvas that lies on the

               floor.  She is holding a paint bucket in one hand and a brush

               in the other, with which she flicks paint down at the canvas.

               The Dude turns again as he hears running footsteps.  Two

               young men in paint-spattered shorts, T-shirts and sneakers

               reach the sling shortly after it reaches the end of its track

               and haul it back for another push.

                                     VOICE

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

                         Lebowski.

               She rumbles by in another pass.

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

               Help me down.

               The  two  men  help Maude  out of  her sling.   She  is naked

               except for leather  harness  straps  which  ring  her 

breasts

               and wrap  her thighs and give her something of a dominatrix

               look.

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

                                     DUDE

                         Is that what that's a picture of?

                                     MAUDE

                         In a sense, yes.  Elfranco, my robe.

                         My art has been commended as being

                         strongly vaginal.  Which bothers

                         some men.  The word itself makes

                         some men uncomfortable.  Vagina.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh yeah?

                                     MAUDE

                         Yes, they don't like hearing it and

                         find it difficult to say.  Whereas

                         without batting an eye a man will

                         refer to his "dick" or his "rod" or

                         his "Johnson".

                                     DUDE

                         "Johnson"?

                                     MAUDE

                         Thank you.

               This to Elfranco, who has handed her a robe.

               All right, Mr. Lebowski, let's get down to cases.  My father

               told me he's agreed to let you have the rug, but it was a

               gift from me to my late mother, and so was not his to give.

               Now.  As for this. . . "kidnapping"--

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

                                     MAUDE

                         Yes, I know about it.  And I know

                         that you acted as courier.  And let

                         me tell you something:  the whole

                         thing stinks to high heaven.

                                     DUDE

                         Right, but let me explain something

                         about that rug--

                                     MAUDE

                         Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?

                                     DUDE

                         Excuse me?

                                     MAUDE

                         Sex.  The physical act of love.

                         Coitus.  Do you like it?

                                     DUDE

                         I was talking about my rug.

                                     MAUDE

                         You're not interested in sex?

                                     DUDE

                         You mean coitus?

                                     MAUDE

                         I like it too.  It's a male myth

                         about feminists that we hate sex.

                         It can be a natural, zesty enterprise.

                         But unfortunately there are some

                         people--it is called satyriasis in

                         men, nymphomania in women--who engage

                         in it compulsively and without joy.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh, no.

                                     MAUDE

                         Yes Mr. Lebowski, these unfortunate

                         souls cannot love in the true sense

                         of the word.  Our mutual acquaintance

                         Bunny is one of these.

                                     DUDE

                         Listen, Maude, I'm sorry if your

                         stepmother is a nympho, but I don't

                         see what it has to do with--do you

                         have any kalhua?

                                     MAUDE

                         Take a look at this, sir.

               She is aiming a remote at a projection TV.  The screen

               flickers to life.  A title card:

               JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

               SECOND CARD:

               KARL HUNGUS

               AND

               BUNNY LAJOYA

               IN

               A THIRD CARD:

               LOGJAMMIN'

               The Dude is at the bar, a bottle of kalhua frozen halfway

               to his glass.

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

               door opening.

               On the TV screen the door opens to reveal a sallow-faced

               man in blue coyer-alls.  It is Dieter, the floater in

               Lebowski's pool.

                                     DIETER

                         Hello.  Nein dizbatcher says zere

                         iss problem mit deine kable.

                                     DUDE

                         Shit, I know that guy.  He's a

                         nihilist.

                                     MAUDE

                         And you recognize her, of course.

               The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.

               Bunny The TV is in here.

                                     DIETER

                         Za, okay, I bring mein toolz.

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

               the shower.

                                     MAUDE

                              (grimly)

                         The story is ludicrous.

                                     DIETER

                         Mein nommen iss Karl.  Is hard to

                         verk in zese clozes--

               Maude switches off the set.

                                     MAUDE

                         Lord.  You can imagine where it goes

                         from here.

                                     DUDE

                         He fixes the cable?

                                     MAUDE

                         Don't be fatuous, Jeffrey.  Little

                         matter to me that this woman chose

                         to pursue a career

               in pornography, nor that she has been "banging" Jackie

               Treehorn, to use the parlance of our times.  However.  I am

               one of two trustees of the Lebowski Foundation, the other

               being my father.  The Foundation takes youngsters from Watts

               and--

                                     DUDE

                         Shit yeah, the achievers.

                                     MAUDE

                         Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,

                         yes, and proud we are of all of them.

                         I asked my father about his withdrawal

                         of a million dollars from the

                         Foundation account and he told me

                         about this "abduction", but I tell

                         you it is preposterous.  This

                         compulsive

               fornicator is taking my father for the proverbial ride.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, but my-

                                     MAUDE

                         I'm getting to your rug. My  father

                         and I don't get along; he doesn't

                         approve of my lifestyle and, needless

                         to say, I don't approve of his.

                         Still, I hardly wish to make my

                         father's embezzlement a police matter,

                         so I'm proposing that you try to

                         recover the money from the people

                         you delivered it to.

                                     DUDE

                         Well--sure, I could do that--

                                     MAUDE

                         If you successfully do so, I will

                         compensate you to the tune of 1% of

                         the recovered sum.

                                     DUDE

                         A hundred.

                                     MAUDE

                         Thousand, yes, bones or clams or

                         whatever you call them.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, but what about--

                                     MAUDE

                         --your rug, yes, well with that money

                         you can buy any number of rugs that

                         don't have sentimental value for me.

                         And I am sorry about that crack on

                         the jaw.

               The Dude fingers his jaw, where the lump from the sap has

               all but disappeared.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh that's okay, I hardly even--

                                     MAUDE

                         Here's the name and number of a doctor

                         who will look at it for you.  You

                         will receive no bill.  He's a good

                         man, and thorough.

                                     DUDE

                         That's really thoughtful but I--

                                     MAUDE

                         Please see him, Jeffrey.  He's a

                         good man, and thorough.

               LIMO

               The Dude sits in back holding a White Russian,  listening to

               the chauffeur, a man of about the same age from whose livery

               cap a ponytail emerges.

                                     DRIVER

                         --So he says, "My son can't hold a

                         job, my daughter's married to a

                         fuckin' loser, and I got a rash on

                         my ass so bad I can't hardly siddown.

                         But you know me.  I can't complain."

               THROUGH RASPING LAUGHTER:

                                     DUDE

                         Fuckin' A, man.  I got a rash.

                         Fuckin' A, man.  I gotta tell ya

                         Tony.

               He takes a sip of a freshly-mixed White Russian, which leaves

               milk on his mustache.

               I was feeling really shitty earlier in the day, I'd lost  a

               little  money, I  was down in the dumps.

                                     TONY

                         Aw, forget about it.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, man!  Fuck it!  I can't be

                         worrying about that shit.  Life goes

                         on!

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

               holding his drink.

                                     TONY

                         Home sweet home, Mr. L.  Who's your

                         friend in the Volkswagon?

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

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

               shoulder.

               He followed us here.

               The Dude turns to look.

               HIS POV

               Halfway up the block a Volkswagon bug has pulled over to the

               curb.  In the driver's seat we see a fat man's shape.

               THE DUDE

               He scowls.

                                     DUDE

                         When did he-

               The Dude is grabbed from behind and muscled away in a half-

               nelson by another uniformed chauffeur.

                                     SECOND CHAUFFEUR

                         Into the limo, you sonofabitch.  No

                         arguments.

               As he is frog-marched towards another limo the Dude holds

               his drink away from his chest and cups a hand underneath it.

                                     DUDE

                         Fuck, man!  There's a beverage here!

               The waiting limo's back door is flung open.

               INSIDE

               The Dude is shoved in and awkwardly takes a seat facing the

               rear. The door is slammed behind him.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Start talking and talk fast you lousy

                         bum!

                                     BRANDT

                         We've been frantically trying to

                         reach you, Dude.

               Brandt sits catty-corner from the Dude; directly across from

               the Dude is the big Lebowski, a comforter across his knees.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Where's my goddamn money, you bum?!

                                     DUDE

                         Well we--I don't--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         They did not receive the money, you

                         nitwit!  They  did not receive the

                         goddamn money.  HER LIFE WAS IN YOUR

                         HANDS!

                                     BRANDT

                         This is our concern, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         No, man, nothing is fucked here--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         NOTHING IS FUCKED! THE GODDAMN PLANE

                         HAS CRASHED INTO THE MOUNTAIN!

               The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.

                                     DUDE

                         C'mon man, who're you gonna believe?

                         Those guys are--we dropped off the

                         damn money--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         WHAT?!

                                     DUDE

                         I--the royal we, you know, the

                         editorial--I dropped off the money,

                         exactly as per--Look, I've got certain

                         information, certain things have

                         come to light, and uh, has it ever

                         occurred to you, man, that given the

                         nature of all this new shit, that,

                         uh, instead of running around blaming

                         me, that this whole thing might just

                         be, not, you know, not just such a

                         simple, but uh--you know?

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         What in God's holy name are you

                         blathering about?

                                     DUDE

                         I'll tell you what I'm blathering

                         about!  I got information--new shit

                         has come to light and--shit, man!

                         She kidnapped herself!

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

                                     DUDE

                         Well sure, look at it!  Young trophy

                         wife, I mean, in the parlance of our

                         times, owes money all over town,

                         including to known pornographers--

                         and that's cool, that's cool-- but

                         I'm saying, she needs money, and of

                         course they're gonna say they didn't

                         get it 'cause she wants more, man,

                         she's gotta feed the monkey, I mean--

                         hasn't that ever occurred to you...?

                         Sir?

                                     LEBOWSKI

                              (quietly)

                         No.  No Mr. Lebowski, that had not

                         occurred to me.

                                     BRANDT

                         That had not occurred to us, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Well, okay, you're not privy to all

                         the new shit, so uh, you know, but

                         that's what you pay me for.  Speaking

                         of which, would it be possible for

                         me to get my twenty grand in cash?

                         I gotta check this with my accountant

                         of course, but my concern is that,

                         you know, it could bump me into a

                         higher tax--

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Brandt, give him the envelope.

                                     DUDE

                         Well, okay, if you've already made

                         out the check.  Brandt is handing

                         him a letter-sized envelope which is

                         distended by something inside.

                                     BRANDT

                         We received it this morning.

               The Dude, frowning, untucks its flap, takes out some cotton

               wadding and unrolls it.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Since you have failed to achieve,

                         even in the modest task that was

                         your charge, since you have stolen

                         my money, and since you have

                         unrepentantly betrayed my trust.

               The wadding, undone, reveals a smaller wad of gauze taped up

               inside.  The Dude undoes the tape with his fingernails and

               starts to unroll the inner package.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         I have no choice but to tell these

                         bums that they should do whatever is

                         necessary to recover their money

                         from you, Jeffrey Lebowski.  And

                         with Brandt as my witness, tell you

                         this:  Any further harm visited upon

                         Bunny, shall be visited tenfold upon

                         your head.

               Between thumb and forefinger the Dude holds up the contents

               of the package--a little toe, with emerald green nail polish.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         ...By God sir.  I will not abide

                         another toe.

               COFFEE SHOP

               The Dude and Walter sit at the counter, both staring off

               into space, both absently stirring their coffee with little

               clinking noises.

               AFTER A LONG BEAT:

                                     WALTER

                         That wasn't her toe.

                                     DUDE

                         Whose toe was it, Walter?

                                     WALTER

                         How the fuck should I know?  I do

                         know that nothing about it indicates--

                                     DUDE

                         The nail polish, Walter.

                                     WALTER

                         Fine, Dude.  As if it's impossible

                         to get some nail polish, apply it to

                         someone else's toe--

                                     DUDE

                         Someone else's--where the fuck are

                         they gonna--

                                     WALTER

                         You want a toe?  I can get you a

                         toe, believe me.  There are ways,

                         Dude.  You don't wanna know about

                         it, believe me.

                                     DUDE

                         But Walter--

                                     WALTER

                         I'll  get  you  a  toe by  this

                         afternoon--with nail  polish. These

                         fucking amateurs.   They send us a

                         toe, we're  supposed to  shit our-

                         selves with fear.  Jesus Christ. My

                         point is--

                                     DUDE

                         They're gonna kill her, Walter, and

                         then they're gonna kill me--

                                     WALTER

                         Well that's just, that's the stress

                         talking, Dude.  So far we have what

                         looks to me like a series of

                         victimless crimes--

                                     DUDE

                         What about the toe?

                                     WALTER

                         FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!

               A waitress enters.

                                     WAITRESS

                         Could you please keep your voices

                         down--this is a family restaurant.

                                     WALTER

                         Oh, please dear!  I've got news for

                         you: the Supreme Court has roundly

                         rejected prior restraint!

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, this isn't a First Amendment

                         thing.

                                     WAITRESS

                         Sir, if you don't calm down I'm going

                         to have to ask you to leave.

                                     WALTER

                         Lady, I got buddies who died face-

                         down in the muck so you and I could

                         enjoy this family restaurant!

               THE DUDE GETS UP:

                                     DUDE

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

                         ma'am.

                                     WALTER

                         Don't run away from this, Dude!

                         Goddamnit, this affects all of us!

               The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:

                                     WALTER

                         Our basic freedoms!

               He looks defiantly around.

                                     WALTER

                         I'm staying.  Finishing my coffee.

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

               affecting nonchalance.

                                     WALTER

                         Finishing my coffee.

               DUDE'S BATHROOM

               A dripping noise.

               The Dude sits in the bathtub, staring stuporously, a joint

               pinched in one hand, a washcloth draped over his head.

               We hear the phone ringing in the other roam.

               The Dude is staring at his toes, which protrude from the

               soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.

               After the Dude's outgoing message we hear:

                                     VOICE THROUGH MACHINE

                         Mr. Lebowski, this is Duty Officer

                         Rolvaag of the L.A.P.D.

               The Dude looks stuporously up, his head swaying.

                                     VOICE THROUGH MACHINE

                         We've recovered your vehicle.  It

                         can be claimed at the North Hollywood

                         Auto Circus there on Victory.

                                     DUDE

                         Far out.  Far fuckin' out.

                                     MESSAGE

                         You'll just need to present a--

               The message is interrupted by loud smashing sounds, as of

               someone applying a baseball bat to the answering machine.

                                     DUDE

                         Hunh?

               He looks blearily at the open doorway.

               A tall man dressed in black leather with a cricket paddle is

               striding across the living room towards the bathroom.

                                     DUDE

                         Hey!  This is a private residence,

                         man!

               The man has entered the bathroom and, in stride, swings the

               cricket paddle up to smash the overhead light.  Two other

               men are entering behind him.

               The room is dark now except for spill from the living room;

               the men are backlit shapes.

               One of them holds a string at the other end of which a small

               animal skitters excitedly about the floor.

               The Dude looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.

                                     DUDE

                         Nice marmot.

               The man with the string scoops up the marmot and tosses it,

               screaming, into the bathtub.

               The Dude screams.

               The marmot splashes frantically, biting at the Dude in a

               frenzy of fearful aggression.

                                     FIRST MAN

                         Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

               The Dude, screaming, grabs the lip of the tub and starts to

               hoist himself up but the first man lays a palm on top of his

               head and squishes him back into the water.

                                     SECOND MAN

                         You think veer kidding und making

                         mit de funny stuff?

                                     THIRD MAN

                         Vee could do things you only dreamed

                         of, Lebowski.

                                     SECOND MAN

                         Ja, vee could really do it, Lebowski.

                         Vee belief in nossing.

               He scoops the marmot out of the water.  It shakes itself

               off, spraying the Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Jesus!

                                     DIETER

                         Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!

                         NOSSING!!

               The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking

               itself and convulsing in little sneezes.

                                     DUDE

                         Jesus Christ!

                                     FIRST MAN

                         Tomorrow vee come back und cut off

                         your chonson.

                                     DUDE

                         Excuse me?

                                     FIRST MAN

                         I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON!

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

                                     SECOND MAN

                         Just sink about zat, Lebowski.

                                     FIRST MAN

                         Ja, your viggly penis, Lebowski.

                                     SECOND MAN

                         Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und

                         skvush it, Lebowski!

               NORTH HOLLYWOOD AUTO CIRCUS

               A policeman with a clipboard is leading the Dude through a

               large parking lot.

                                     POLICEMAN

                         You're lucky she wasn't chopped, Mr.

                         Lebowski. Must've been a joyride

                         situation; they abandoned the car

                         once they hit the retaining wall.

               They have reached the Dude's car.  The  driver's side

               exterior has been scraped raw.  The policeman hands the Dude

               a door  handle and an exterior rear-view mirror.

                                     POLICEMAN

                         These were on the road next to the

                         car.  You'll have to get in on the

                         other side.

               The Dude climbs in the passenger side.

                                     DUDE

                         My fucking briefcase!  It's not here!

                                     POLICEMAN

                         Yeah, sorry, I saw that on the report.

                         You're lucky they left the tape deck

                         though.

                                     DUDE

                         My fucking briefcase!  Jesus--what's

                         that smell?

                                     POLICEMAN

                         Uh, yeah.  Probably a vagrant, slept

                         in the car.  Or perhaps just used it

                         as a toilet, and moved on.

               The Dude tries to roll down the driver's window but it will

               not go; he bellows through the glass:

                                     DUDE

                         When will you find these guys?  I

                         mean, do you have any promising leads?

               The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.

                                     POLICEMAN

                         Leads, yeah.  I'll just check with

                         the boys down at the Crime Lab.

                         They've assigned four more detectives

                         to the case, got us working in shifts.

               The Dude looks sadly through his window at the policeman

               rocking back on his heels, his raucous laughter muffled by

               the glass.

               BOWLING ALLEY BAR

               The Dude, Walter and Donny sit at the bar, the Dude with a

               White Russian, Walter with a beer, and Donny eating beer

               nuts.

                                     DONNY

                         And then they're gonna stamp on it?!

                                     WALTER

                         Oh for Christ--will you shut the

                         fuck up, Donny.

                                     DUDE

                         I figure my only hope is that the

                         big Lebowski kills me before the

                         Germans can cut my dick off.

                                     WALTER

                         Now that is ridiculous, Dude.  No

                         one is going to cut your dick off.

                                     DUDE

                         Thanks Walter.

                                     WALTER

                         Not if I have anything to say about

                         it.

                                     DUDE

                              (bitterly)

                         Yeah, thanks Walter.  That gives me

                         a very secure feeling.

                                     WALTER

                         Dude--

                                     DUDE

                         That makes me feel all warm inside.

                                     WALTER

                         Now Dude--

                                     DUDE

                         This whole fucking thing--I  could

                         be sitting here with just pee-stains

                         on my rug.

               Walter sadly shakes his head.

                                     WALTER

                         Fucking Germans.  Nothing changes.

                         Fucking Nazis.

                                     DONNY

                         They were Nazis, Dude?

                                     WALTER

                         Come on, Donny, they were threatening

                         castration!

                                     DONNY

                         Uh-huh.

                                     WALTER

                         Are you gonna split hairs?

                                     DONNY

                         No--

                                     WALTER

                         Am I wrong?

                                     DONNY

                         Well--

                                     DUDE

                         They're nihilists.

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?

                                     DUDE

                         They kept saying they believe in

                         nothing.

                                     WALTER

                         Nihilists!  Jesus.

               Walter looks haunted.

               Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism,

               Dude, at least it's an ethos.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.

                                     WALTER

                         And let's also not forget--let's not

                         forget, Dude--that keeping wildlife,

                         an amphibious rodent, for uh,

                         domestic, you know, within the city--

                         that isn't legal either.

                                     DUDE

                         What're you, a fucking park ranger

                         now?

                                     WALTER

                         No, I'm--

                                     DUDE

                         Who gives a shit about the fucking

                         marmot!

                                     WALTER

                         --We're sympathizing here, Dude--

                                     DUDE

                         Fuck your sympathy!  I don't need

                         your sympathy, man, I need my fucking

                         Johnson!

                                     DONNY

                         What do you need that for, Dude?

                                     WALTER

                         You gotta buck up, man, you can't go

                         into the tournament with this negative

                         attitude--

                                     DUDE

                         Fuck the tournament!  Fuck you,

                         Walter!

               There is a moment of stunned silence.

                                     WALTER

                         Fuck the tournament?!

               SAD; QUIET:

                                     WALTER

                         Okay Dude.  I can see you don't want

                         to be cheered up.  C'mon Donny, let's

                         go get a lane.

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

stares

               DOWN INTO HIS EMPTY GLASS:

                                     DUDE

                         Another Caucasian, Gary.

                                     VOICE

                         Right, Dude.

               STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:

                                     DUDE

                         Friends like these, huh Gary.

                                     GARY

                         That's right, Dude.

               The pop song on the jukebox has ended; someone puts on

               "Tumbling Tumbleweeds."

               A man saunters up to the bar to take the stool that Walter

               vacated.  He is middle-aged, amiable, craggily handsome--Sam

               Elliot, perhaps.  He has a large Western-style mustache and

               wears denims, a yoked shirt and a cowboy hat.

               TO THE BARTENDER:

                                     MAN

                         D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?

               We recognize the voice of The Stranger whose narration opened

               the movie.

                                     BARTENDER

                         Sioux City Sarsaparilla.

               The Stranger nods.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         That's a good one.

               Waiting for his drink, he looks amiably around the bar.  His

               crinkled eyes settle on the Dude.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         How ya doin' there, Dude?

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

                                     DUDE

                         Ahh, not so good, man.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         One a those days, huh.  Wal, a wiser

                         fella than m'self once said, sometimes

                         you eat the bar and sometimes the

                         bar, wal, he eats you.

                                     DUDE

                              (absently)

                         Uh-huh.  That some kind of Eastern

                         thing?

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Far from it.

                                     DUDE

                         Mm.

               The bartender puts a brown bottle and a frosted glass on the

               bar in front of The Stranger, who touches his hat brim.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Much obliged.

               He looks back at the Dude.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         I like your style, Dude.

               THE DUDE LOOKS UP, ABSENTLY:

                                     DUDE

                         Well I like your style too, man.

                         Got a whole cowboy thing goin'.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Thankie. . . Just one thing, Dude.

                         D'ya have to use s'many cuss words?

               The Dude looks at The Stranger as if just now noticing how

               out of place the cowpoke is.

                                     DUDE

                         The fuck are you talking about?

               The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the

               bar.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Okay, have it your way.

               He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Take it easy, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.  Thanks man.

               He is gone.  "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" is ending as we hear an

               offscreen voice, breaking the spell:

                                     VOICE

                         Dude!  Dude!

               THE DUDE LOOKS:

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

               beckoning.

               MAUDE'S LOFT

               She strides toward us, naked under a robe which she is just

               cinching shut.  Paint flecks her skin.

                                     MAUDE

                         Jeffrey, you haven't gone to the

                         doctor.

                                     DUDE

                         No it's fine, really, uh--

                                     MAUDE

                         Do you have any news regarding my

                         father's money?

                                     DUDE

                         I, uh... money, yeah, I gotta

                         respecfully, 69 you know, tender my

                         resignation on that matter, 'cause

                         it looks like your mother really was

                         kidnapped after all.

                                     MAUDE

                         She most certainly was not!

                                     DUDE

                         Hey man, why don't you fucking listen

                         occasionally?  You might learn

                         something.  Now I got--

                                     MAUDE

                         And please don't call her my mother.

                                     DUDE

                         Now I got--

                                     MAUDE

                         She is most definitely the perpetrator

                         and not the victim.

                                     DUDE

                         I'm telling you, I got definitive

                         evidence--

                                     MAUDE

                         From who?

                                     DUDE

                         The main guy, Dieter--

                                     MAUDE

                         Dieter Hauff?

                                     DUDE

                         Well--yeah, I guess--

                                     MAUDE

                         Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?

                                     DUDE

                         Beaver?  You mean vagina?--I mean,

                         you know him?

                                     MAUDE

                         Dieter has been on the fringes of--

                         well, of everything in L.A., for

                         about twenty years.  Look at my LP's.

                         Under 'Autobahn.'

               The Dude fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.

                                     MAUDE

                         That was his group--they released

                         one album in the mid-seventies.

               The Dude stops between two albums.

                                     DUDE

                         Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.

                                     MAUDE

                         Huh?  Autobahn.  A-u-t-o.  Their

                         music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop.

               The Dude pulls out an album with a worn sleeve.  On it is

               the group's name, Autobahn, the album name, Nagelbett, and a

               picture

               OF THREE YOUNG GERMANS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW

               SLICKED-

               back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany.  They are

               wearing severe but modishly retro suits.  Each has his name

               under his picture--Dieter, Kieffer; and Franz.  A bed of

               nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.

                                     DUDE

                         Jeez.  I miss vinyl.

                                     MAUDE

                         Is he pretending to be the abductor?

                                     DUDE

                         Well...yeah--

                                     MAUDE

                         Look, Jeffrey, you don't really

                         kidnap someone that you're acquainted

                         with.  You can't get away with it if

                         the hostage knows who you are.

                                     DUDE

                         Well yeah...I know that.

                                     MAUDE

                         So Dieter has the money?

                                     DUDE

                         Well, no, not exactly.  It's a

                         complicated case, Maude.  Lotta ins.

                         Lotta outs.  And a lotta strands to

                         keep in my head, man.  Lotta strands

                         in old Duder's--

                                     MAUDE

                         Do you still have that doctor's

                         number?

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?  No, really, I don't even have

                         the bruise any more, I--

               She is scribbling.

                                     MAUDE

                         Please Jeffrey.  I don't want to be

                         responsible for any delayed after-

                         effects.

                                     DUDE

                         Delayed after-eff--

                                     MAUDE

                         I want you to see him immediately.

               She is picking up a telephone.

                                     MAUDE

                         I'll see if he's available.  He's a

                         good man, and thorough.

               CLOSE SHOT   THE DUDE

               His eyes are closed, a headset on, his shirt off.  Leaking

               tinnily through the headset we hear the opening bars of

               "Comin' Up Around the Bend."

               Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his

torso,

               a white-smocked figure taps at the Dude's back.  After a

               moment the figure circles to one side, out of frame.  His

               hand reaches in to pull one arm of the headset away from the

               Dude's ear, and as he does so the music issues more strongly.

                                     VOICE

                         Could you slide your shorts down

                         please, Mr.  Lebowski?

               The Dude's eyes open.

                                     DUDE

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

                                     VOICE

                         I understand sir.  Could you slide

                         your shorts down please?

               DUDE'S CAR

               The Dude is driving home.  A Creedence tape plays.  The Dude

               is sucking down a joint.  He glances at the rear-view

mirror--

               and, noticing something, looks again.

               HIS POV

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

               THE DUDE

               His eyes still on the mirror, he absently takes the joint

               between thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicks it

               out the driver's window--except that the window is not open.

               The butt bounces off the glass and around the car, showering

               sparks.

               DUDE'S CROTCH

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

               The Dude screams.

               THE STREET

               The car careens wildly as the surrounding traffic veers off

               to, make way, horns blaring.  The car finally spins and comes

               to rest with its passenger side wrapped into a telephone

               poll.

               INSIDE THE CAR

               The Dude frantically grabs at his door, which won't open,

               and then slides over to push at the passenger door, which

               also won't open.

                                     DUDE

                         Fuck Me.

               But he is sitting on the passenger  side now,  away from

               the lit butt.  He looks around for it.

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

               and back cushion.

                                     DUDE

                         Fuckola, man.

               He takes his beer and pours it in between the cushions.

               There is a hissing  sound.   But there is a piece of paper

               sticking out from between the cushions.

               The Dude pulls it out.

               It is lined spiral notebook paper, slightly singed and

               dripping beer, covered with handwriting.  In the upper right-

               hand corner is the name Lawrence Sellers, and under that,

               Mrs. Jamtoss 5th Period.  The theme is titled "The Louisiana

               Purchase."  In red ink is a large circled D and some

               handwritten marginal comments; misspelled words are circled

               in red throughout.

               CRANE JACKSON'S FOUNTAIN STREET THEATER

               We are behind Walter, the Dude, and Donny, facing the stage

               in the background where Allan, the Dude's balding landlord,

               is performing a dance moderne.

               As Walter talks to the Dude he leans in to him, his voice

               hushed, so as not to disturb the rest of the very sparse

               audience.

                                     WALTER

                         He lives in North Hollywood on

                         Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger--

                                     DUDE

                         The In-and-Out Burger is on Camrose.

                                     WALTER

                         Near the In-and-Out Burger--

                                     DONNY

                         Those are good burgers, Walter.

                                     WALTER

                         Shut the fuck up, Donny.  This kid

                         is in the ninth grade, Dude, and his

                         father is--are you ready for this?--

                         Arthur Digby Sellers.

                                     DUDE

                         Who the fuck is that?

                                     WALTER

                         Huh?

                                     DUDE

                         Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?

                                     WALTER

                         Who the f--have you ever heard of a

                         little show called Branded, Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.

                                     WALTER

                         All but one man died?  There at Bitter

                         Creek?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah yeah, I know the fucking show

                         Walter, so what?

                                     WALTER

                         Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote

                         156 episodes, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     WALTER

                         The bulk of the series.

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     WALTER

                         Not exactly a lightweight.

                                     DUDE

                         No.

                                     WALTER

                         And yet his son is a fucking dunce.

                                     DUDE

                         Uh.

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah, go figure.  Well we'll go out

                         there after the, uh, the.

               He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.

                                     WALTER

                         What have you.  We'll, uh--

                                     DONNY

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

                                     WALTER

                         Shut the fuck up, Donny.  We'll, uh,

                         brace the kid--he'll be a pushover.

                         We'll get that fucking money, if he

                         hasn't spent it already.  Million

                         fucking clams. And yes, we'll be

                         near the, uh--some burgers, some

                         beers, a few laughs.  Our fucking

                         troubles are over, Dude.

               RESIDENTIAL AREA

               The Dude and Walter are pulling up in front of a dilapidated

               house sitting on a scrubby lot.  Parked incongruously in

               front of the house is a brand new red Corvette.

                                     DUDE

                         Fuck me, man!  That kid's already

                         spent all the money!

                                     WALTER

                         Hardly Dude, a new 'vette?  The kid's

                         still got, oh, 96 to 97 thousand,

                         depending on the options.  Wait in

                         the car, Donny.

               THE FRONT DOOR

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

               woman.

                                     WOMAN

                         Jace?

                                     WALTER

                         Hello, Pilar?  My name is Walter

                         Sobchak, we spoke on the phone, this

                         is my associate Jeffrey Lebowski.

                                     WOMAN

                         Jace.

                                     WALTER

                         May we uh, we wanted to talk about

                         little Larry.  May we come in?

                                     WOMAN

                         Jace.

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

               Pilar

               CALLS UP THE STAIRS:

                                     PILAR

                         Larry!  Sweetie!  Dat mang is here!

               There is a rhythmic compressor sound; Walter places it and

               nudges the Dude.  At the other end of the living room a man

               lies on something that looks like a hospital gurney with its

               midsection enclosed by a motorized stainless-steel bubble.

               It is an iron lung, artificially breathing with distinct

               hisses in and out.

                                     WALTER

                         That's him, Dude.

                                     VIVA VOCE

                         And a good day to you, sir.

                                     PILAR

                         See down, please.

                                     WALTER

                         Thank you, ma'am.

               He and the Dude sit on a sagging green sofa.  In a lowered

               voice, to Pilar:

                                     WALTER

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

                                     PILAR

                         No, no.  He has healt' problems.

                                     WALTER

                         Uh-huh.

               HE BELLOWS ACROSS THE ROOM:

                                     WALTER

                         I just want to say, sir, that we're

                         both enormous--on a personal level,

                         Branded, especially the early

                         episodes, has been a source of, uh,

                         inspir---

               There are footsteps on the stairs.  Larry, a fifteen-year-

               old, looks at the two men.

                                     PILAR

                         See down, Sweetie.  These are the

                         policeman--

                                     WALTER

                         No ma'am, I didn't mean to give the

                         impression that we're police exactly.

                         We're hoping that it will not be

                         necessary to call the police.

               He adopts his command voice in turning to Larry:

                                     WALTER

                         But that is up to little Larry here.

                         Isn't it, Larry?

               Walter pops the latches on his attache case and takes out

               the homework, which is now in a ziploc bag.  He holds it out

               at arm's length, displaying it to Larry.

                                     WALTER

                         Is this your homework, Larry?

               Larry does not respond.

                                     WALTER

                         Is this your homework, Larry?

                                     DUDE

                         Look, man, did you--

                                     WALTER

                         Dude, please!. . .  Is this your

                         homework, Larry?

                                     DUDE

                         Just ask him if he--ask him about

                         the car, man!

               Walter is still holding out the homework.

                                     WALTER

                         Is this yours, Larry?  Is this your

                         homework, Larry?

                                     DUDE

                         Is the car out front yours?

                                     WALTER

                         Is this your homework, Larry?

                                     DUDE

                         We know it's his fucking homework,

                         Walter!  Where's the fucking money,

                         you little brat?

               Throughout Walter has been staring at Larry with the homework

               extended towards him.

                                     WALTER

                         Look, Larry. . . Have you ever heard

                         of Vietnam?

                                     DUDE

                         Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         You're going to enter a world of

                         pain, son.  We know that this is

                         your homework.  We know you stole a

                         car--

                                     DUDE

                         And the fucking money!

                                     WALTER

                         And the fucking money.  And we know

                         that this is your homework, Larry.

               No answer.

                                     WALTER

                         You're gonna KILL your FATHER, Larry!.

               FINALLY, IN DISGUST:

                                     WALTER

                         Ah, this is pointless.

               As he shoves the homework back in the attache case:

                                     WALTER

                         All right, Plan B.  You might want

                         to watch out the front window there,

                         Larry.

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

               follow him.

                                     WALTER

                         This is what happens when you FUCK a

                         STRANGER in the ASS, Larry.

               OUTSIDE

               Walter is striding down the lawn with his attache case like

               an enraged encyclopedia salesman.  Without looking back at,

               the Dude, who follows:

                                     WALTER

                         Fucking language problem, Dude.

               He pops the Dude's trunk, flings in the briefcase and takes

               out a tire iron.

                                     WALTER

                         Maybe he'll understand this.

               He is walking over to the Corvette.

                                     WALTER

                         YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

               CRASH!  He swings the crowbar into the windshield, which

               shatters.

                                     WALTER

                         YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!

               CRASH!  He takes out the driver's window.

                                     WALTER

                         THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK A

                         STRANGER IN THE ASS!

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

               bark.

                                     WALTER

                         HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

               CRASH!

                                     WALTER

                         HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS!  FUCK A STRANGER

                         IN THE ASS!

               CRASH!

               A man in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts has run over

               behind Walter and grabbed him from behind on a backswing of

               the crowbar.

                                     MAN

                         WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?!

               He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.

                                     MAN

                         I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!

               Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.

                                     WALTER

                         Hunh?

               The man looks about, wildly.

                                     MAN

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

                         FUCKEEN CAR!

               He runs over to the Dude's car.

                                     DUDE

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

               CRASH!  CRASH!

                                     MAN

                         I FUCKEEN KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

               CRASH!

                                     MAN

                         I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

               INSIDE THE CAR

               Glass rains in on a terrified, cringing, Donny.

                                     MAN

                         I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!

                                            ON A DEAFENING CRASH WE CUT TO:

               THE DUDE'S CAR

               We are looking into the car through the broken windshield as

               it rattles down the freeway.  Wind whistles through the

caved-

               in windows.

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

               road.  Walter, beside him, and Donny in the back seat, munch

               'on In-and-Out Burgers.

               Creedence music plays above the bluster of wind.

               DUDE'S BUNGALOW

               As the Dude talks on the phone he is hammering a two-by-four

               into the floor just inside, and parallel to, the front door.

                                     DUDE

                         I accept your apology. . . No I, I

                         just want to handle it myself from

                         now on. . . No.  That has nothing to

                         do with it. . . .Yes, it made it

                         home, I'm calling from home.  No,

                         Walter, it didn't look like Larry

                         was about to crack.

               He finishes hammering, rises and grabs a straightbacked chair

               that stands nearby.

                                     DUDE

                         Well that's your perception. . .

                         Well you're right, Walter, and the

                         unspoken Message is FUCK YOU AND

                         LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. . . Yeah,

                         I'll be at practice.

               He hangs up and has just finished sliding the chair into

               place with its top under the doorknob and its legs braced

               against the two-by-four, thus wedging the door closed, when

               the door is opened--outwards.  The chair clatters to the

               floor.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

               Woo and the blond man who earlier peed on the rug stride in,

               kicking the chair away.

                                     WOO

                         Pin your diapers on, Lebowski.  Jackie

                         Treehorn wants to see you.

                                     BLOND MAN

                         And we know which Lebowski you are,

                         Lebowski.

                                     WOO

                         Yeah.  Jackie Treehorn wants to talk

                         to the deadbeat Lebowski.

                                     BLOND MAN

                         You're not dealing with morons here.

               BLACKNESS

               Out of the blackness something is falling toward us.  It is

               a woman, falling in slow motion, her limbs flailing, her

               mouth contorted by either fear or ecstasy.  She is topless.

               She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a

               beat reappears, rising into the night sky.

               MALIBU BEACH

               A crowd of mostly tanned middle-aged men with blow-dried

               hair, wearing jogging outfits and other expensively casual

               attire, are blanket-tossing the squealing young woman in

               nightmarish slow motion.

               WIDER

               It is a party, lit by festive beach lights and standing

               kerosene heaters.  1960's mainstream jazz, of the Mancini-

               Brubeck school, has been piped down to speakers on the

beach'.

               In long shot now the woman rises, squealing, disappears

               into darkness, descends into light, rises again.

               A man walks towards the camera through the pools of beach

               light.  He is handsome, fiftyish, wearing cotton twill pants

               and a Turnbull & Asher shirt with a foulard knotted at the

               neck.  Behind him, the woman rises and falls, appears and

               disappears.

                                     MAN

                         Hello Dude, thanks for coming.  I'm

                         Jackie Treehorn.

               INSIDE THE BEACH HOUSE

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

                                     DUDE

                         This is quite a pad you got here,

                         man.  Completely unspoiled.

                                     TREEHORN

                         What's your drink, Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         White Russian, thanks.  How's the

                         smut business, Jackie?

                                     TREEHORN

                         I wouldn't know, Dude.  I deal in

                         publishing, entertainment, political

                         advocacy, and--

                                     DUDE

                         Which one was Logjammin'?

                                     TREEHORN

                         Regrettably, it's true, standards

                         have fallen in adult entertainment.

                         It's video, Dude.  Now that we're

                         competing with the amateurs, we can't

                         afford to invest that little extra

                         in story, production value, feeling.

               He taps his forehead with one finger.

                                     TREEHORN

                         People forget that the brain is the

                         biggest erogenous zone--

                                     DUDE

                         On you, maybe.

               He hands him the drink.

                                     TREEHORN

                         Of course, you do get the good with

                         the bad.  The new technology permits

                         us to do exciting things with

                         interactive erotic software.  Wave

                         of the future, Dude.  100% electronic.

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.  Well, I still jerk off

                         manually.

                                     TREEHORN

                         Of course you do.  I can see you're

                         anxious for me to get to the point.

                         Well Dude, here it is.  Where's Bunny?

                                     DUDE

                         I thought you might know, man.

                                     TREEHORN

                         Me?  How would I know?  The only

                         reason she ran off was to get away

                         from her rather sizable debt to me.

                                     DUDE

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

               Treehorn waves this off.

                                     TREEHORN

                         I've heard the kidnapping story, so

                         save it.  I know you're mixed up in

                         all this, Dude, and I don't care

                         what you're trying to take off her

                         husband.  That's your business.  All

                         I'm saying is, I want mine.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, well, right man, there are

                         many facets to this, uh, you know,

                         many interested parties.  If I can

                         find your money, man-- what's in it

                         for the Dude?

                                     TREEHORN

                         Of course, there's that to discuss.

                         Refill?

                                     DUDE

                         Does the Pope shit in the woods?

                                     TREEHORN

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

                                     DUDE

                         Okay, Jackie, done.  I like the way

                         you do business.  Your money is being

                         held by a kid named Larry Sellers.

                         He lives in North Hollywood, on

                         Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger.

                         A real fuckin' brat, but I'm sure

                         your goons'll be able to get it off

                         him, mean he's only fifteen and he's

                         flunking social studies.  So if you'll

                         just write me a check for my ten per

                         cent. . . of half a million. . .

                         fifty grand.

               He is getting to his feet, but sways woozily.

                                     DUDE

                         I'll go out and mingle.--Jesus, you

                         mix a hell of a Caucasian, Jackie.

               The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus.

                                     TREEHORN

                         A fifteen-year-old?  Is this your

                         idea of a joke?

               Jackie Treehorn's image starts to swim.  He is joined on

               either side by Woo and the blond man, all three men looking

               grimly down at the Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         No funny stuff, Jackie. . . the kid's

                         got it.  Hiya, fellas. . . kid just

                         wanted a car.  All the Dude ever

                         wanted. . . was his rug back. . .

                         not greedy. . . it really.

               He squints at Jackie Treehorn, who swims in and out of focus.

               Tied the room together.

               He tips forward, spilling his drink off the table.

               FROM UNDER THE GLASS COFFEE TABLE

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

               squishes.

               FAST FADE OUT

               BLACK

                                     THE STRANGER'S VOICE

                         Darkness warshed over the Dude--

                         darker'n a black steer's tookus on a

                         moonless prairie night.  There was

                         no bottom.

               We hear a thundering bass.

               SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:

               JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS

               ANOTHER TITLE CARD:

               THE DUDE

               AND

               MAUDE LEBOWSKI

               IN

               THIRD TITLE CARD:

               GUTTERBALLS

               The title logo is a suggestively upright bowling pin flanked

               by a pair of  bowling balls.   The  bending bass sound turns

               into the lead-in to Kenny Rogers and the First Edition's

               "Just Dropped In."

               The Dude is walking down a long corridor dressed as a cable

               repairman.  The Dude's face is washed with a brilliant light

               as the corridor opens onto a gleaming bowling alley.

               In the center of the alley stands Maude Lebowski, singing

               operatic harmony to the Kenny Rogers song.  She wears an

               armored breastplate and Norse headgear, has braided pigtails,

               and holds a trident.

               The Dude stands behind her and, pressed up against her, helps

               her with her follow-through as she releases a bowling ball.

               The lane is straddled by a line of chorines in spangly mini-

               skirts, their arms akimbo, Busby-Berkley style, their legs

               turning the lane into a tunnel leading to the pins at the

               end.

               But it is no longer a bowling ball rolling between their

               legs--it is the Dude himself, levitating inches off the lane,

               the tools from his utility belt swinging free.  He is face

               down, his arms, torpedolike, pressed against his sides.

               His point of view shows the lane rushing by below, the little

               ball-guide arrows zipping by.

               The Dude twists his body around, performing a barrel-roll so

               that he is now gliding along the lane face-up.

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

               chorines.

               The Dude smiles dreamily and does a backstroke motion so

               that he is once again gliding face-down.  He looks forward

               and his forward momentum blows back his hair.

               Coming at us, as we go through the last few pairs of legs,

               are the approaching pins.  We hit the pins, scattering them,

               and rush on into black.

               A body drops down into the blackness in slow motion--a

topless

               woman, squealing, her legs kicking.

               As she drops out of frame, leaving blackness again, three

               men are entering from the background, emerging into a pool

               of light.  It is the Germans, advancing ominously, wielding

               oversized shears which they menacingly scissor.

               The Dude, now standing in a field of black, reacts to the

               advancing Germans.  He turns and runs, fists pumping.

               The scissoring sound of the shears turns into the whoosh of

               car-bys.  The field of black is punctured by headlights.

               The Dude is running blearily down the middle of the Pacific

               Coast Highway. Cars rush by on either side, horns blaring.

               With the BLOO-WHUP of a short siren blast, a squad car with

               flashing gumballs pulls up.

               SQUAD CAR

               The Dude sits in the back seat, his head lolling with the

               motion of the car as he blearily sings the theme of Branded:

                                     DUDE

                         He was innocent.  Not a charge was

                         true.  And they say he ran awaaaaaay.

               CHIEF'S OFFICE

               The Dude is hurled against the chief's desk, which he bounces

               off of, to come to rest more or less seated in a facing

chair.

               His wallet is tossed onto the desk.

               The chief leans forward, takes the wallet and sorts through

               it with disgusted incredulity.

                                     CHIEF

                         This is your only I.D.?

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

                                     DUDE

                         I know my rights.

                                     CHIEF

                         You don't know shit, Lebowski.

                                     DUDE

                         I want a fucking lawyer, man.  I

                         want Bill Kunstler.

                                     CHIEF

                         What are you, some kind of sad-assed

                         refugee from the fucking sixties?

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     CHIEF

                         Mr. Treehorn tells us that he had to

                         eject you from his garden party,

                         that you were drunk and abusive.

                                     DUDE

                         That guy treats women like objects,

                         man.

                                     CHIEF

                         Mr. Treehorn draws a lot of water in

                         this town, Lebowski.  You don't draw

                         shit.  We got a nice quiet beach

                         community here, and I aim to keep it

                         nice and quiet.  So let me make

                         something plain.  I don't like you

                         sucking around bothering our citizens,

                         Lebowski.  I don't like your jerk-

                         off name, I don't like your jerk-off

                         face, I don't like your jerk- off

                         behavior, and I don't like you, jerk-

                         off --do I make myself clear?

               The Dude stares.

                                     DUDE

                         I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.

               The Chief hurls his steaming mug of coffee at the Dude.  It

               hits him in the forehead with a thud, the scalding coffee

               splashing everywhere.

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

                                     DUDE

                         --Ow!  Fucking fascist!

               The Chief slaps him twice.

                                     CHIEF

                         Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!

               He kicks the chair out from under the Dude, and then starts

               kicking at him.

                                     CHIEF

                         Stay out of Malibu, deadbeat!  Keep

                         your ugly fucking goldbricking ass

                         out of my beach community!

               CAB

               The Dude, in the back seat of a taxicab that rocks and

squeaks

               with every bump, is gingerly touching at sore spots on his

               face and scalp.

               "Peaceful Easy Feeling" is on the radio.

               DUDE'S POV

               The back of the driver, a large black man with rasta dreds

               under a knit cap.

                                     DUDE

                         Jesus, man, can you change the

                         station?

                                     DRIVER

                         Fuck you man!  You don't like my

                         fucking music, get your own fucking

                         cab!

                                     DUDE

                         I've had a--

                                     DRIVER

                         I pull over and kick your ass out,

                         man!

                                     DUDE

                         --had a rough night, and I hate the

                         fucking Eagles, man--

                                     DRIVER

                         That's it!  Outta this fucking cab!

               THE STREET

               The cab screeches over towards the curb.  Another car,

               oncoming, its radio blaring Metallica, speeds by.

               INSIDE THE OTHER CAR

               It is a red convertible.  The driver, singing loudly and

               badly along with the radio, her hair blowing in the wind, a

               dreamy smile on her face as she speeds along, higher than a

               kite, is Bunny Lebowski.

               THE FOOTWELL

               On the accelerator her right foot, in an open-toed bright

               red high-heeled shoe, has five painted toes.

               When she downshifts her left foot enters to engage the

clutch.

               Five more toes.

               DUDE'S BUNGALOW

               The Dude staggers in the open front door, one hand pressed

               to a lump on his forehead, and looks around.

                                     DUDE

                         Jesus.

               The place is a wreck.  Furniture has been overturned,

               upholstery slashed, drawers dumped.

               Quiet.

               The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.

               The Dude cringes.

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

                                     MAUDE

                         Jeffrey.

                                     DUDE

                         Maude?

               She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.

                                     MAUDE

                         Love me.

               The Dude is stupefied.

                                     DUDE

                         That's my robe.

                                         THOOMP!  ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:

               BLACK

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

               blackness:

                                     MAUDE

                         Tell me a little about yourself,

                         Jeffrey.

                                     DUDE

                         Well, uh. . . Not much to tell.

               A match is dragged across a headboard; the Dude is lighting

               himself a joint.  He shakes the match out to restore

blackness

               except for the glowing tip of the joint.

                                     DUDE

                         I was, uh, one of the authors of the

                         Port Huron Statement.--The original

                         Port Huron Statement.

                                     MAUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     DUDE

                         Not the compromised second draft.

                         And then I, uh. . . Ever hear of the

                         Seattle Seven?

                                     MAUDE

                         Mmnun.

               Click--the Dude turns on a bedside lamp.  He and Maude lie

               next to each other in bed.

                                     DUDE

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

                         business briefly.

                                     MAUDE

                         Oh?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.  Roadie for Metallica.  Speed

                         of Sound Tour.

                                     MAUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     DUDE

                         Bunch of assholes.  And then, you

                         know, little of this, little of that.

                         My career's, uh, slowed down a bit

                         lately.

                                     MAUDE

                         What do you do for fun?

                                     DUDE

                         Oh, you know, the usual.  Bowl.

                         Drive around.  The occasional acid

                         flashback.

               He climbs out of bed but Maude remains in it.  She wedges a

               pillow into the small of her back and clasps a hand on each

               kneecap.  She pulls her knees in toward her chest to keep

               her pelvis raised.

                                     MAUDE

                         What happened to your house?

                                     DUDE

                         Jackie Treehorn trashed the place.

                         Wanted to save the finder's fee.

                                     MAUDE

                         Finder's fee?

                                     DUDE

                         He thought I had your father's money,

                         so he got me out of the way while he

                         looked for it.

                                     MAUDE

                         It's not my father's money, it's the

                         Foundation's.  Why did he think you

                         had it?  And who does?

                                     DUDE

                         Larry Sellers, a high-school kid.

                         Real fucking brat.

               He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.

                                     MAUDE

                         Jeffrey--

                                     DUDE

                         It's a complicated case, Maude.

                         Lotta ins, lotta outs.  Fortunately

                         I've been adhering to a pretty strict,

                         uh, drug regimen to keep my mind,

                         you know, limber.  I'm real fucking

                         close to your father's money, real

                         fucking close.  It's just--

                                     MAUDE

                         I keep telling you, it's the

                         Foundation's money.  Father doesn't

                         have any.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?  He's fucking loaded.

                                     MAUDE

                         No no, the wealth was all Mother's.

                                     DUDE

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

                                     MAUDE

                         We did let Father run one of the

                         companies, briefly, but he didn't do

                         very well at it.

                                     DUDE

                         But he's--

                                     MAUDE

                         He helps administer the charities

                         now, and I give him a reasonable

                         allowance.  He has no money of his

                         own.  I know how he likes to present

                         himself; Father's weakness is vanity.

                         Hence the slut.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh.  Jeez.  Well, so, did he--is

                         that yoga?

               Throughout, Maude has been lying on her back with her knees

               pulled in.

                                     MAUDE

                         It increases the chances of

                         conception.

               The Dude spits some White Russian.

                                     DUDE

                         Increases?

                                     MAUDE

                         Well yes, what did you think this

                         was all about?  Fun and games?

                                     DUDE

                         Well...no, of course not--

                                     MAUDE

                         I want a child.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, okay, but see, the Dude--

                                     MAUDE

                         Look, Jeffrey, I don't want a partner.

                         In fact I don't want the father to

                         be someone I have to see socially,

                         or who'll have any interest in rearing

                         the child himself.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh...

               Something occurs to him.

                                     DUDE

                         So...that doctor.

                                     MAUDE

                         Exactly.  What happened to your face?

                         Did Jackie Treehorn do that as well?

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

               absent.

                                     DUDE

                         No, the, uh, police chief of Malibu.

                         A real reactionary. . . So your

                         father. . . Oh man, I get it!

                                     MAUDE

                         What?

               The Dude is leaving the bedroom.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, my thinking about the case,

                         man, it had become uptight.  Yeah.

                         Your father--

               LIVING ROOM

               The Dude finishes punching a number into the phone.

                                     PHONE VOICE

                         This is Walter Sobchak.  I'm not in;

                         leave a message after the beep.

               FROM THE BEDROOM:

                                     MAUDE'S VOICE

                         What're you talking about?

               Beep.

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, if you're there, pick up the

                         fucking phone.  Pick it up, Walter,

                         this is an emergency.  I'm not--

                                     WALTER

                         Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, listen, I'm at my place, I

                         need you to come pick me up--

                                     WALTER

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

                         shabbas.

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

                                     WALTER

                         Erev shabbas.  I can't drive.  I'm

                         not even supposed to pick up the

                         phone, unless it's an emergency.

                                     DUDE

                         It is a fucking emergency.

                                     WALTER

                         I understand.  That's why I picked

                         up the phone.

                                     DUDE

                         THEN WHY CAN'T YOU--fuck, never mind,

                         just call Donny then, and ask him to--

                                     WALTER

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

                                     DUDE

                         WALTER, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE, WE GOTTA

                         GO TO PASADENA!  COME  PICK ME UP OR

                         I'M OFF THE FUCKING BOWLING TEAM!

                                     MAUDE'S VOICE

                         Jeffrey?

               THE DUDE

               He emerges on his front stoop, pulling on a shirt. His

               attention is caught by something down the street.

               HIS POV

               A car is  parked halfway down the block.  We can see the

               shape of a fat man in the driver's seat.

               THE DUDE

               Striding purposefully down the street.

               HIS POV

               The fat man leans forward and we hear the sound of the car's

               ignition coughing, but the engine will not turn over.  More

               whines and coughs; no start.

               The man hurriedly fumbles in front of him.  He brings up a

               newspaper, which he holds before his face.

               THE DUDE

               As he gets to the car.  He reaches through the open driver's

               window and grabs the newspaper and hurls it to the ground.

               He is revved with nervous energy.

                                     DUDE

                         Get out of that fucking car, man!

               The man nervously complies.  The Dude flinches at the man's

               movement as he gets out.

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

               He is wearing a cheap blue serge suit.  He is bald with a

               short fringe and a mustache.

               The Dude shouts to cover his fear:

                                     DUDE

                         Who the fuck are you, man!  Come on,

                         man!

                                     MAN

                         Relax, man!  No physical harm

                         intended!

                                     DUDE

                         Who the fuck are you?  Why've you

                         been following me?  Come on, fuckhead!

                                     MAN

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

               The Dude is stunned.

                                     DUDE

                         Brother Shamus?  Like an Irish monk?

                                     MAN

                         Irish m--What the fuck are you talking

                         about?  My name's Da Fino!  I'm a

                         private snoop!  Like you, man!

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

                                     DA FINO

                         A dick, man!  And let me tell you

                         something: I dig your work. Playing

                         one side against the other--in bed

                         with everybody--fabulous stuff, man.

                                     DUDE

                         I'm not a--ah, fuck it, just stay

                         away from my fucking lady friend,

                         man.

                                     DA FINO

                         Hey hey, I'm not messing with your

                         special lady--

                                     DUDE

                         She's not my special lady, she's my

                         fucking lady friend.  I'm just helping

                         her conceive, man!

                                     DA FINO

                         Hey, man, I'm not--

                                     DUDE

                         Who're you working for?  Lebowski?

                         Jackie Treehorn?

                                     DA FINO

                         The Gundersons.

                                     DUDE

                         The?  Who the fff--

                                     DA FINO

                         The Gundersons.  It's a wandering

                         daughter job.  Bunny Lebowski, man.

                         Her real name is Fawn Gunderson.

                         Her parents want her back.

               He is fumbling in his wallet.

                                     DA FINO

                         See?

               The Dude looks at the picture.

               It is probably a school portrait, unmistakably Bunny, but

               fresh-faced, much younger looking, with a corn-fed smile and

               straight Partridge Family hair and bangs.

                                     DUDE

                         Jesus fucking Christ.

                                     DA FINO

                         Crazy, huh?  Ran away a year ago.

               He is holding out another picture.

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

               The family farm.

               A bleak farmhouse and silo are the only features on a flat

               snow-swept landscape.

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

               homesick.

                                     DUDE

                         Boy.  How ya gonna keep 'em down on

                         the farm once they seen Karl Hungus.

               He hands back the picture.

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

               definitely not around.

                                     DA FINO

                         Fuck, man!  That's terrible!

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, it sucks.

                                     DA FINO

                         Well maybe you and me could pool our

                         resources--trade information--

                         professional courtesy--compeers, you

                         know--

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

               approaching car.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, I get it.  Fuck off, Da Fino.

                         And stay away from my special la--

                         from my fucking lady friend.

               The Dude steps out to meet Walter's car as it pulls up, its

               passenger window open and the pomeranian leaning out and

               yapping.

               DENNY'S

               Four people sit at a booth:  Dieter, Kieffer, Franz, all in

               black leather, and a young woman with long stringy blonde

               hair, wearing torn and patched jeans and a ribbed sleeveless

               tee-shirt, worn thin with age.  She is apparently braless,

               and is teutonically pale with birthmarks on her face and

               arms.

               Notable  is  her  camera-side  leg,  which  ends in  a

bandage-

               swaddled foot.  Dried rust-colored blood stains the tip of

               the bandage. The  four  are  arguing,  loudly,  in  German.

               They seem  very unhappy. A waitress enters with a checkpad

               and pen.

                                     WAITRESS

                         You folks ready?

               The German shouting stops.  Dieter looks sourly up.

                                     DIETER

                         I haff lingenberry pancakes.

                                     KIEFFER

                         Lingenberry pancakes.

                                     FRANZ

                         Sree picks in blanket.

               The woman speaks to Dieter in German.  He nods.

                                     DIETER

                         Lingenberry pancakes.

               WALTER'S CAR

               Walter's eyes are on the road as he listens, driving, to the

               Dude, whose speech is occasionally punctuated by yaps from

               the back seat.

                                     DUDE

                         I mean we totally fucked it up, man.

                         We fucked up his pay-off.  And got

                         the kidnappers all pissed off, and

                         the big Lebowski yelled at me a lot,

                         but he didn't do anything.  Huh?

                                     WALTER

                         Well it's, sometimes the cathartic,

                         uh.

                                     DUDE

                         I'm saying if he knows I'm a fuck-

                         up, then why does he still leave me

                         in charge of getting back his wife?

                         Because he fucking doesn't want her

                         back, man!  He's had enough!  He no

                         longer digs her!  It's all a show!

                         But then, why didn't he give a shit

                         about his million bucks?  I mean, he

                         knew we didn't hand off his briefcase,

                         but he never asked for it back.

                                     WALTER

                         What's your point, Dude?

                                     DUDE

                         His million bucks was never in it,

                         man!  There was no money in that

                         briefcase!  He was hoping they'd

                         kill her!  You throw out a ringer

                         for a ringer!

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah?

                                     DUDE

                         Shit yeah!

                                     WALTER

                         Okay, but how does all this add up

                         to an emergency?

                                     DUDE

                         Huh?

                                     WALTER

                         I'm saying, I see what you're getting

                         at, Dude, he kept the money, but my

                         point is, here we are, it's shabbas,

                         the sabbath, which I'm allowed to

                         break only if it's a matter of life

                         and death--

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, come off it.  You're not

                         even fucking Jewish, you're--

                                     WALTER

                         What the fuck are you talking about?

                                     DUDE

                         You're fucking Polish Catholic--

                                     WALTER

                         What the fuck are you talking about?

                         I converted when I married Cynthia!

                         Come on, Dude!

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah, and you were--

                                     WALTER

                         You know this!

                                     DUDE

                         And you were divorced five fucking

                         years ago.

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah?  What do you think happens

                         when you get divorced?  You turn in

                         your library card?  Get a new driver's

                         license?  Stop being Jewish?

                                     DUDE

                         This driveway.

               AS HE TURNS:

                                     WALTER

                         I'm as Jewish as fucking Tevye

                                     DUDE

                         It's just part of your whole sick

                         Cynthia thing.  Taking care of her

                         fucking dog.  Going to her fucking

                         synagogue.  You're living in the

                         fucking past.

                                     WALTER

                         Three thousand years of beautiful

                         tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--

                         YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I LIVE IN THE

                         PAST!   I--Jesus.  What the hell

                         happened?

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

               Walter is looking.

               THE LEBOWSKI MANSION

               Walter's car pulls up the drive into the foreground and he

               and the Dude get out.

               Both are gaping off at the front lawn.

                                     WALTER

                         Jesus Christ.

               THEIR POV

               Tire treads lead across the manicured front lawn to where a

               little red sports car rests with its hood crumpled into a

               palm trunk.

               TRACKING DOWN THE GREAT HALLWAY

               Through the French doors at its far end we can see Bunny,

               naked, briefly bouncing on the diving board before splashing

               into the illuminated pool outside.  Heavy metal music filters

               in from a boom box by the pool.

               Brandt, approaching, stoops and straightens, stoops and

               straightens, picking up the discarded clothes that run the

               length of the hall.

                                     BRANDT

                         He can't see you, Dude.

               We pull the Dude and Walter as they approach the doors to

               the great study.  Walter's dog follows, stiffly waving its

               tail.

                                     DUDE

                         Where'd she been?

                                     BRANDT

                         Visiting friends of hers in Palm

                         Springs.  Just picked up and left,

                         never bothered to tell us.

                                     DUDE

                         But I guess she told Dieter.

                                     WALTER

                         Jesus, Dude!  He never even kidnapped

                         her.

                                     BRANDT

                         Who's this gentleman, Dude?

                                     WALTER

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

                                     BRANDT

                         You shouldn't go in there, Dude!

                         He's very angry!

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

into--

               THE GREAT ROOM

               The big Lebowski turns at the sound of the door.  His

               wheelchair hums as he spins it around.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                              (bitterly)

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

                                     DUDE

                         Where's the money, Lebowski?

                                     WALTER

                         A MILLION BUCKS FROM FUCKING NEEDY

                         LITTLE URBAN ACHIEVERS!  YOU ARE

                         SCUM, MAN!

               The dog yaps.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Who the hell is he?

                                     WALTER

                         I'll tell you who I am!  I'm the guy

                         who's gonna KICK YOUR PHONY

                         GOLDBRICKING ASS!

                                     DUDE

                         We know the briefcase was empty,

                         man.  We know you kept the million

                         bucks yourself.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Well, you have your story, I have

                         mine.  I say I entrusted the money

                         to you, and you stole it.

                                     WALTER

                         AS IF WE WOULD EVER DREAM OF TAKING

                         YOUR BULLSHIT MONEY!

                                     DUDE

                         You thought Bunny'd been kidnapped

                         and you could use it as a pretext to

                         make some money disappear.  All you

                         needed was a sap to pin it on, and

                         you'd just met me.  You thought,

                         hey, a deadbeat, a loser, someone

                         the square community won't give a

                         shit about.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Well?  Aren't you?

                                     DUDE

                         Well. . . yeah.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         All right, get out.  Both of you.

                                     WALTER

                         Look at that fucking phony, Dude!

                         Pretending to be a fucking

                         millionaire!

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         I said out.  Now.

                                     WALTER

                         Let me tell you something else.

                         I've seen a lot of spinals, Dude,

                         and this guy is a fake.  A fucking

                         goldbricker.

               He is crossing to Lebowski.

                                     WALTER

                         This guy fucking walks.  I've never

                         been more certain of anything in my

                         life!

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Stay away from me, mister!

               Walter reaches around from behind and hoists the big Lebowski

               out of the wheelchair by his armpits.

                                     WALTER

                         Walk, you fucking phony!

               The big Lebowski waggles helplessly, his rubbery feet grazing

               the floor like a Raggedy Ann's.  The pomeranian gaily leaps

               and yaps.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Put me down, you son of a bitch!

                                     DUDE

                         Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         It's all over, man!  We call your

                         fucking bluff!

                                     DUDE

                         WALTER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!  HE'S

                         CRIPPLED!  PUT HIM DOWN!

                                     WALTER

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

                         ACHTUNG, BABY!!

               He shoves the big Lebowski forward and he crumples to the

               floor, weeping.

                                     WALTER

                         Oh, shit.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                              (sobbing)

                         You're bullies!  Cowards, both of

                         you!

               Walter is abashed.  The Big Lebowski flails about on the

               floor.

                                     WALTER

                         Oh, shit.

                                     DUDE

                         He can't walk, Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah, I can see that, Dude.

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         You monsters!

                                     DUDE

                         Help me put him back in his chair.

               Walter moves to comply.

                                     WALTER

                         Shit, sorry man.

               THROUGH HIS TEARS:

                                     LEBOWSKI

                         Stay away from me!  You bullies!

                         You and these women!  You won't leave

                         a man his fucking balls!

                                     DUDE

                         Walter, you fuck!

                                     WALTER

                         Shit, Dude, I didn't know.  I

                         wouldn't've done it if I knew he was

                         a fucking crybaby.

                                     DUDE

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

               The Dude has picked up the Big Lebowski's plaid lap warmer

               and is frantically tucking it back in around his waist and

               batting the dog away.

                                     DUDE

                         There ya go.  Sorry man.

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

                                     WALTER

                         Shit.  He didn't look like a spinal.

               TEN PINS

               Scattered at the cut.

               DUDE AND WALTER

               Each with a beer at the scoring table.

                                     WALTER

                         Sure you'll see some tank battles.

                         But fighting in desert is very

                         different from fighting in canopy

                         jungle.

                                     DUDE

                         Uh-huh.

                                     WALTER

                         I mean 'Nam was a foot soldier's war

                         whereas, uh, this thing should be a

                         fucking cakewalk.  I mean I had an

                         M16, Jacko, not an Abrams fucking

                         tank.  Just me and Charlie, man,

                         eyeball to eyeball.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.

                                     WALTER

                         That's fuckin' combat.  The man in

                         the black pyjamas, Dude.  Worthy

                         fuckin' adversary.

                                     DONNY

                         Who's in pyjamas, Walter?

                                     WALTER

                         Shut the fuck up, Donny.  Not a bunch

                         of fig-eaters with towels on their

                         heads tryin' to find reverse on a

                         Soviet tank.  This is not a worthy--

                                     VOICE

                         HEY!

               The Dude and Walter look.

               Quintana is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is

               restrained by O'Brien.

                                     QUINTANA

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

               Walter looks at him innocently.

                                     QUINTANA

                         What is this bullshit, man?  I don't

                         fucking care!  It don't matter to

                         Jesus!  But you're not fooling me!

                         You might fool the fucks in the league

                         office, but you don't fool Jesus!

                         It's bush league psych-out stuff!

                         Laughable, man!  I would've fucked

                         you in the ass Saturday, I'll fuck

                         you in the ass next Wednesday instead!

                                     QUINTANA

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

               away.

                                     QUINTANA

                         You got a date Wednesday, man!

               Walter, his head cocked, and the Dude, peeking over his

               shades, watch him go.

                                     WALTER

                         He's cracking.

               BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT

               Donny, Walter and the Dude emerge from the alley, each

holding

               his leatherette ball satchel.

                                     WALTER

                         A tree of life, Dude.  To all who

                         cling to it.

               They react to the droning synthesizer-based technopop coming

               from a boom box.

               REVERSE

               Dieter, Kieffer and Franz, in shiny black leather, stand in

               a line facing them in the all-but-deserted lot.  Behind them

               orange flames lick gently at the Dude's car, which has been

               put to the torch.  The orange flames glow on the men's

               creaking leather.  Next to the car are three motorcycles,

               parked in a neat row.  The Dude looks sadly at the burning

               car.

                                     DUDE

                         They finally did it.  They killed my

                         fucking car.

                                     DIETER

                         Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

                                     KIEFFER

                         Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.

                                     FRANZ

                         Ja, it seems you forgot our little

                         deal, Lebowski.

                                     DUDE

                         You don't have the fucking girl,

                         dipshits.  We know you never did.

                         So you've got nothin' on my Johnson.

                                     DUDE

               The men in black, stunned, confer amongst themselves in

               German.  Under his breath:

                                     DONNY

                         Are these the Nazis, Walter?

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

               men:

                                     WALTER

                         They're nihilists, Donny, nothing to

                         be afraid of.

               The Germans stop conferring.

                                     DIETER

                         Vee don't care.  Vee still vant zat

                         money or vee fuck you up.

                                     KIEFFER

                         Ja, vee still vant ze money.  Vee

                         sreaten you.

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

               firelight.

                                     WALTER

                         Fuck you.  Fuck the three of you.

                                     DUDE

                         Hey, cool it Walter.

               Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:

                                     WALTER

                         There's no ransom if you don't have

                         a fucking hostage.  That's what ransom

                         is.  Those are the fucking rules.

                                     DIETER

                         Zere ARE no ROOLZ!

                                     WALTER

                         NO RULES!  YOU CABBAGE-EATING SONS-

                         OF- BITCHES--

                                     KIEFFER

                         His girlfriend gafe up her toe!  She

                         sought we'd be getting million

                         dollars!  Iss not fair!

                                     WALTER

                         Fair!  WHO'S THE FUCKING NIHILIST

                         HERE!  WHAT ARE YOU, A BUNCH OF

                         FUCKING CRYBABIES?!

                                     DUDE

                         Hey, cool it Walter.  Listen, pal,

                         there never was any money.  The big

                         Lebowski gave me an empty briefcase,

                         man, so take it up with him.

                                     WALTER

                         AND I'D LIKE MY UNDIES BACK!

               The Germans confer again, in German.

               Donny is visibly frightened.

                                     DONNY

                         Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?

               WALTER 'S TONE IS GENTLE:

                                     WALTER

                         They won't hurt us, Donny.  These

                         men are cowards.

               THE CONFERENCE ENDS:

                                     DIETER

                         Okay.  Vee take ze money you haf on

                         you und vee call it eefen.

                                     WALTER

                         Fuck you.

               The Dude is digging into his pocket.

                                     DUDE

                         Come on, Walter, we're ending this

                         thing cheap.

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

                                     WALTER

                         What's mine is mine.

                                     DUDE

                         Come on, Walter!.

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

                                     DUDE

                         Four dollars here!

               He inspects the change in his palm.

                                     DUDE

                         Almost five!

                                     DONNY

                              (tremulously)

                         I got eighteen dollars, Dude.

                                     WALTER

                              (grimly)

                         What's mine is mine.

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

                                     DIETER

                         VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!  VEE TAKE YOUR

                         MONEY!

                                     WALTER

                              (coolly)

                         Come and get it.

                                     DIETER

                         VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!

                                     WALTER

                         Come and get it.  Fucking nihilist.

                                     DIETER

                         I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!

                                     WALTER

                         Show me what you got.  Nihilist.

                         Dipshit with a nine-toed woman.

               In a rage, Dieter charges.

                                     DIETER

                         I FUCK YOU!  I FUCK YOU!

               WALTER

               hurls his leather satchel.

               KIEFFER

               Watching Dieter's charge, is caught off-guard.  The bowling

               ball thuds into his chest and lifts him off his feet.

               He falls back, his uzi clattering away.

               WALTER

               twists away as Dieter reaches him; grabs Dieter's head in

               both hands; draws Dieter's head up to his mouth, which closes

               on Dieter's ear.

               DUDE

               He rushes Franz but draws up short as Franz sends out karate

               kicks, his leather pants squeaking and popping.  Franz gives

               a loud cry with each kick; the Dude leans back, throwing his

               arms up, evading the kicks.

               WALTER

               His jaw is still clamped on Dieter's ear.  Dieter draws his

               saber against Walter's side, drawing blood.

               Walter doesn't react to the wound.  Growling as Dieter

               screams, he worries his ear, waggling his head with his jaws

               clamped.

               THE SABER

               Dieter drops it.

               DUDE

               Awkwardly circling, evading Franz's kicks.

               WALTER

               still worrying the ear.  With a tearing sound his head and

               Dieter's separate.

               DIETER, EARLESS, SCREAMS:

                                     DIETER

                         I FUCK YOU!  YOU CANNOT HURT ME!  I

                         BELIEF IN NUSSING!

               Walter spits his ear into his face.

               DUDE

               The Dude and Franz, both now panting heavily, have yet to

               establish body contact.  Franz continues to kick.

                                     FRANZ

                         VEAKLING!

               WALTER

               draws back his fist.

                                     DIETER

                         NUSSING!

                                     WALTER

                         ANTI-SEMITE!

               Bam!--A powerhouse blow to the middle of his face drops

Dieter

               for the count.

               DUDE AND FRANZ

               With a piercing shriek Franz finally summons the nerve to

               charge the Dude, hands raised to deliver karate blows.

               As he reaches the Dude--WHHAP--the  boom box swings into

               frame to smash him in the face.  Its volume shoots up.

               Walter bashes him a few more times over the head.  The music

               screeches to static, then quiet.  Laid out now, Franz too is

               quiet.

               All quiet.

               Walter, panting, looks around.

                                     WALTER

                         We've got a man down, Dude.

               With a hand pressed to his bleeding side he trots over to

               Donny, who lies gasping on the ground.

               The Dude, also panting, rises and trots over.

                                     DUDE

                         Hy God!  They shot him, Walter!

                                     WALTER

                         No Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         They shot Donny!

               Donny gasps for air.  His eyes, wide, go from the Dude to

               Walter.  One hand still clutches his eighteen dollars.

                                     WALTER

                         There weren't any shots.

                                     DUDE

                         Then what's...

                                     WALTER

                         It's a heart attack.

                                     DUDE

                         Wha.

                                     WALTER

                         Call the medics, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Wha. . . Donny--

                                     WALTER

                         Hurry Dude.  I'd go but I'm pumping

                         blood.  Might pass out.

               The Dude runs into the lanes.  Walter lays a reassuring hand

               on Donny's shoulder.

                                     WALTER

                         Rest easy, good buddy, you're doing

                         fine.  We got help choppering in.

               FADE OUT

               HOLD IN BLACK

               THE DUDE AND WALTER

               ---

               They sit side by side, forearms on knees, in a nondescript

               waiting area.  Walter bounces the fingertips of one hand off

               those of the other.  They sit.  They wait.

               A tall thin man in a conservative black suit enters.  He

               eyes the Dude's bowling attire and sunglasses and Walter's

               army surplus, but doesn't make an issue of it.

                                     MAN

                         Hello, gentlemen.  You are the

                         bereaved?

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah man.

                                     MAN

                         Francis Donnelly.  Pleased to meet

                         you.

                                     DUDE

                         Jeffrey Lebowski.

                                     WALTER

                         Walter Sobchak.

                                     DUDE

                         The Dude, actually.  Is what, uh.

                                     DONNELLY

                         Excuse me?

                                     DUDE

                         Nothing.

                                     DONNELLY

                         Yes.  I understand you're taking

                         away the remains.

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah.

                                     DONNELLY

                         We have the urn.

               He nods through a door.  Another man in a black suit enters

               to carefully deposit a large silver urn on the desktop.

                                     DONNELLY

                         And I assume this is credit card?

               He is vaguely handing a large leather folder across the desk

               to whomever wants to take it.

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah.

               He takes it, opens it, puts on reading glasses that sit

               halfway down his nose, and inspects the bill with his head

               pulled back for focus and cocked for concentration.  Silence.

               The Dude smiles at Donnelly.  Donnelly gives back a

               mortician's smile.  At length Walter holds the bill towards

               Donnelly, pointing.

                                     WALTER

                         What's this?

                                     DONNELLY

                         That is for the urn.

                                     WALTER

                         Don't need it.  We're scattering the

                         ashes.

                                     DONNELLY

                         Yes, so we were informed.  However,

                         we must of course transmit the remains

                         to you in a receptacle.

                                     WALTER

                         This is a hundred and eighty dollars.

                                     DONNELLY

                         Yes sir.  It is our most modestly

                         priced receptacle.

                                     DUDE

                         Well can we--

                                     WALTER

                         A hundred and eighty dollars?!

                                     DONNELLY

                         They range up to three thousand.

                                     WALTER

                         Yeah, but we're--

                                     DUDE

                         Can we just rent it from you?

                                     DONNELLY

                         Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental

                         house.

                                     WALTER

                         We're scattering the fucking ashes!

                                     DUDE

                         Walter--

                                     WALTER

                         JUST BECAUSE WE'RE BEREAVED DOESN'T

                         MEAN WE'RE SAPS!

                                     DONNELLY

                         Sir, please lower your voice--

                                     DUDE

                         Hey man, don't you have something

                         else you could put it in?

                                     DONNELLY

                         That is our most modestly priced

                         receptacle.

                                     WALTER

                         GODDAMNIT!  IS THERE A RALPH'S AROUND

                         HERE?!

               POINT DUME -- DAY

               It is a high, wind-swept bluff.  Walter and the Dude walk

               towards the lip of the bluff.  Parked in the background is

               one lonely car, Walter's.

               Walter is carrying a bright red coffee can with a blue

plastic

               lid.  When they reach the edge the two men stand awkwardly

               for a beat.  Finally:

                                     WALTER

                         I'll say a few words.

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

               his throat.

                                     WALTER

                         Donny was a good bowler, and a good

                         man.  He was. . . He was one of us.

                         He was a man who loved the outdoors,

                         and bowling, and as a surfer explored

                         the beaches of southern California

                         from Redondo to Calabassos.  And he

                         was an avid bowler.  And a good

                         friend.  He died--he died as so many

                         of his generation, before his time.

                         In your wisdom you took him, Lord.

                         As you took so many bright flowering

                         young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc

                         and Hill 364.  These young men gave

                         their lives.  And Donny too.  Donny

                         who. . . who loved bowling.

               Walter clears his throat.

                                     WALTER

                         And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos,

                         in accordance with what we think

                         your dying wishes might well have

                         been, we commit your mortal remains

                         to the bosom of.

               Walter is peeling the plastic lid off the coffee can.

                                     WALTER

                         the Pacific Ocean, which you loved

                         so well.

               AS HE SHAKES OUT THE ASHES:

                                     WALTER

                         Goodnight, sweet prince.

               The wind has blown all of the ashes into the Dude, standing

               just to the side of and behind Walter. The Dude stands,

               frozen. Finished eulogizing, Walter looks back.

                                     WALTER

                         Shit, I'm sorry Dude.

               He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.

                                     WALTER

                         Goddamn wind.

               Heretofore motionless, the Dude finally explodes, slapping

               Walter's hands away.

                                     DUDE

                         Goddamnit Walter!  You fucking

                         asshole!

                                     WALTER

                         Dude!  Dude, I'm sorry!

               The Dude is near tears.

                                     DUDE

                         You make everything a fucking

                         travesty!

                                     WALTER

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

               The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.

                                     DUDE

                         What about that shit about Vietnam!

                                     WALTER

                         Dude, I'm sorry--

                                     DUDE

                         What the fuck does Vietnam have to

                         do with anything!  What the fuck

                         were you talking about?!

               Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost

               lost.

                                     WALTER

                         Shit Dude, I'm sorry--

                                     DUDE

                         You're a fuck, Walter!

               He gives Walter a weaker shove.  Walter seems dazed, then

               wraps his arms around the Dude.

                                     WALTER

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

               THE LANES THE DUDE AND WALTER BOWLING

               We watch each of them glide across the floor, release, follow

               through--gracefully.  We have never seen them bowl before.

               They are quite good.  Each wears a black armband on his

               bowling shirt.

               BAR AREA

               The Dude walks up to the bar.

                                     DUDE

                         Two oat sodas, Gary.

                                     GARY

                         Right.  Good luck tomorrow.

                                     DUDE

                         Thanks, man.

                                     GARY

                         Sorry to hear about Donny.

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah.  Well, you know, sometimes you

                         eat the bear, and, uh.

               "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" has come up on the jukebox, and The

               Stranger ambles up to the bar.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Howdy do, Dude.

                                     DUDE

                         Oh, hey man, how are ya?  I wondered

                         if I'd see you again.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Wouldn't miss the semis.  How things

                         been goin'?

                                     DUDE

                         Ahh, you know.  Strikes and gutters,

                         ups and downs.

               The Stranger's eyes crinkle merrily.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Sure, I gotcha.

               The bartender has put two gleaming beers on the counter.

                                     DUDE

                         Thanks, Gary...Take care, man, I

                         gotta get back.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Sure.  Take it easy, Dude--I know

                         that you will.

               THE DUDE, LEAVING, NODS:

                                     DUDE

                         Yeah man.  Well, you know, the Dude

                         abides.

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

                                     THE STRANGER

                         The Dude abides.

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

               the camera.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         I don't know about you, but I take

                         comfort in that.  It's good knowin'

                         he's out there, the Dude, takin' her

                         easy for all us sinners.  Shoosh.  I

                         sure hope he makes The finals.  Welp,

                         that about does her, wraps her all

                         up.  Things seem to've worked out

                         pretty good for the Dude'n Walter,

                         and it was a purt good story, dontcha

                         think?   Made me laugh to beat the

                         band.  Parts, anyway.  Course--I

                         didn't like seein' Donny go. But

                         then, happen to know that there's a

                         little Lebowski on the way.  I guess

                         that's the way the whole durned human

                         comedy keeps perpetuatin' it-self,

                         down through the generations, westward

                         the wagons, across the sands a time

                         until-- aw, look at me, I'm ramblin'

                         again.  Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed

                         yourselves.

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

               back.

                                     THE STRANGER

                         Catch ya further on down the trail.

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

               voice fades:

                                     THE STRANGER

                         ...Say friend, ya got any more a

                         that good sarsaparilla?...

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