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The Big Lebowski Music Video
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2019-08-26 21:35:54 UTC
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THE BIG LEBOWSKI
by
Ethan & Joel Coen



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 nomenclature. 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 aggression
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?

[...]
--
I love love
adam adam
2021-01-30 21:40:27 UTC
Permalink
There's a lot of long hair here. It's beautiful
u2
2021-01-30 22:11:51 UTC
Permalink
Post by adam adam
There's a lot of long hair here. It's beautiful
eee tam, Elektryczne Gitary to łysole:)

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