THE BIG LEBOWSKI



			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?...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?...