Pulp Fiction Page #27

FABIENNE:

Blueberry pie.

BUTCH:

Well maybe not that fast, but fast.

Okay? Okay?

FABIENNE:

Okay.

He kisses her once more and heads for the door.

BUTCH:

Bye-bye, sugar pop.

FABIENNE:

Bye.

BUTCH:

I'm gonna take your Honda.

FABIENNE:

Okay.

And with that, he's out the door.

Fabienne sits on the bed and looks at the money he gave her.

INT. HONDA (MOVING) – DAY

Butch is beating the steering wheel and the dash with his

fists as he drives down the street.

BUTCH:

Of all the f***in' things she coulda

forgot, she forgets my father's watch.

I specifically reminded her not to

forget it. "Bedside table – on the

kangaroo." I said the words: "Don't

forget my father's watch."

EXT. CITY STREET – DAY

The little Honda races toward its destination as fast as is

little engine will take it.

CUT TO:

A parking meter red flag rises up, then out, leaving the

arrow pointing at one hour.

EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET CORNER – DAY

Butch isn't completely reckless. He has parked his car a

couple of blocks from his apartment to check things out before

he goes boppin' through the front door.

EXT. ALLEY – DAY

Butch walks down the alley until he gets to another street,

then he discreetly glances out.

EXT. STREET – BUTCH'S APARTMENT – DAY

Everything seems normal. More or less the right number of

cars in the street. None of the parked cars appear out of

place. None of them have a couple of goons sitting inside.

Basically, it looks like normal morning activity in front of

Butch's home.

Butch peers around a wall, taking in the vital information.

Butch walks out of the alley and is ready for anything. He

crosses the street and enters his apartment courtyard.

Across the street from Butch's building, on the corner, is a

combination donut shop and Japanese restaurant. A big sign

sticks up in the air, with the name "Teriyaki Donut" and a

graphic of a donut sticking out of a bowl of rice.

EXT. BUTCH'S APARTMENT COURTYARD – DAY

Butch is in the courtyard of his North Hollywood apartment

building. Once again, everything appears normal – the laundry

room, the pool, his apartment door – nothing appears

disturbed.

Butch climbs the stairs leading to his apartment, number 12.

He steps outside the door and listens inside. Nothing.

Butch slowly inserts the key into the door, quietly opening

it.

INT. BUTCH'S APARTMENT – DAY

His apartment hasn't been touched.

He cautiously steps inside, shuts the door and takes a quick

look around. Obviously, no one is there.

Butch walks into his modest kitchen, and opens the

refrigerator.

He takes out a carton of milk and drinks from it.

With carton in hard, Butch surveys the apartment. Then he

goes to the bedroom.

His bedroom is like the rest of the apartment – neat, clean

and anonymous. The only things personal in his room are a

few boxing trophies, an Olympic silver medal, a framed issue

of "Ring Magazine" with Butch on the cover, and a poster of

Jerry Quarry and one of George Chuvalo.

Sure enough, there's the watch just like he said it was: On

the bedside table, hanging on his little kangaroo statue.

He walks through the apartment and back into the kitchen. He

opens a cupboard and takes out a box of Pop Tarts. Putting

down the milk, he opens the box, takes out two Pop Tarts and

puts them in the toaster.

Butch glances to his right, his eyes fall on something.

What he sees is a small compact Czech M61 submachine gun

with a huge silencer on it, lying on his kitchen counter.

BUTCH:

(softly)

Holy sh*t.

He picks up the intimidating peace of weaponry and examines

it.

Then... a toilet FLUSHES.

Butch looks up to the bathroom door, which is parallel to

the kitchen. There is someone behind it.

Like a rabbit caught in a radish patch, Butch freezes, not

knowing what to do.

The bathroom door opens and Vincent Vega steps out of the

bathroom, tightening his belt. In his hand is the book

"MODESTY BLAISE" by Peter O'Donnell.

Vincent and Butch lock eyes.

Vincent freezes.

Butch doesn't move, except to point the M61 in Vincent's

direction.

Neither man opens his mouth.

Then... the toaster LOUDLY kicks up the Pop Tarts.

That's all the situation needed.

Butch's finger HITS the trigger.

MUFFLED FIRE SHOOTS out of the end of the gun.

Vincent is seemingly WRACKED with twenty bullets

SIMULTANEOUSLY – LIFTING him off his feet, PROPELLING him

through the air and CRASHING through the glass shower door

at the end of the bathroom.

By the time Butch removes his finger from the trigger, Vincent

is annihilated.

Butch stands frozen, amazed at what just happened. His look

goes from the grease spot in the bathroom that was once

Vincent, down to the powerful piece of artillery in his grip.

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