Pulp Fiction Page #5

Jules stops Vincent.

JULES:

Whoa... whoa... whoa... stop right

there. Eatin' a b*tch out, and givin'

a b*tch a foot massage ain't even

the same f***in' thing.

VINCENT:

Not the same thing, the same ballpark.

JULES:

It ain't no ballpark either. Look

maybe your method of massage differs

from mine, but touchin' his lady's

feet, and stickin' your tongue in

her holyiest of holyies, ain't the

same ballpark, ain't the same league,

ain't even the same f***in' sport.

Foot massages don't mean sh*t.

VINCENT:

Have you ever given a foot massage?

JULES:

Don't be tellin' me about foot

massages – I'm the foot f***in'

master.

VINCENT:

Given a lot of 'em?

JULES:

Sh*t yeah. I got my technique down

man, I don't tickle or nothin'.

VINCENT:

Have you ever given a guy a foot

massage?

Jules looks at him a long moment – he's been set up.

JULES:

F*** you.

He starts walking down the hall. Vincent, smiling, walks a

little bit behind.

VINCENT:

How many?

JULES:

F*** you.

VINCENT:

Would you give me a foot massage –

I'm kinda tired.

JULES:

Man, you best back off, I'm gittin'

pissed – this is the door.

The two men stand in front of the door numbered "49." They

whisper.

JULES:

What time is it?

VINCENT:

(checking his watch)

Seven-twenty-two in the morning.

JULES:

It ain't quite time, let's hang back.

They move a little away from the door, facing each other,

still whispering.

JULES:

Look, just because I wouldn't give

no man a foot massage, don't make it

right for Marsellus to throw Antwan

off a building into a glass muthafuckin'

house, f***in' up the way the nigga

talks. That ain't right, man. Muthafucka

do that sh*t to me, he better paralyze

my ass 'cause I'd kill a muthafucka.

VINCENT:

I'm not sayin' he was right, but

you're sayin' a foot massage don't

mean nothing, and I'm sayin' it does.

I've given a million ladies a million

foot massages and they all meant

somethin'. We act like they don't,

but they do. That's what's so f***in'

cool about 'em. This sensual thing's

goin' on that nobody's talkin about,

but you know it and she knows it,

f***in' Marsellus knew it, and Antwan

shoulda known f***in' better. That's

his f***in' wife, man. He ain't gonna

have a sense of humor about that

sh*t.

JULES:

That's an interesting point, but

let's get into character.

VINCENT:

What's her name again?

JULES:

Mia. Why you so interested in big

man's wife?

VINCENT:

Well, Marsellus is leavin' for Florida

and when he's gone, he wants me to

take care of Mia.

JULES:

Take care of her?

Making a gun out of his finger and placing it to his head.

VINCENT:

Not that! Take her out. Show her a

good time. Don't let her get lonely.

JULES:

You're gonna be takin' Mia Wallace

out on a date?

VINCENT:

It ain't a date. It's like when you

and your buddy's wife go to a movie

or somethin'. It's just... you know...

good company.

Jules just looks at him.

VINCENT:

It's not a date.

Jules just looks at him.

INT. APARTMENT (ROOM 49) – MORNING

THREE YOUNG GUYS, obviously in over their heads, sit at a

table with hamburgers, french fries and soda pops laid out.

One of them flips the LOUD BOLT on the door, opening it to

REVEAL Jules and Vincent in the hallway.

JULES:

Hey kids.

The two men stroll inside.

The three young caught-off-guard Guys are:

MARVIN, the black young man, who open the door, will, as the

scene progresses, back into the corner.

Rate this script:3.8 / 57 votes