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?...