The Big Lebowski Page #2

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 F***ING MONEY, SHITHEAD!

DUDE:

It's uh, it's down there somewhere.

Lemme take another look.

His head is plunged back in.

VOICE:

Don't f*** 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 f***ing 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 f*** 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:

F***.

BLOND MAN:

What do you think?

WOO:

He looks like a f***in' 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:

F***in' waste of time.

The blond man turns testily at the door.

BLOND MAN:

Thanks a lot, a**hole.

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--

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