The Big Lebowski Page #25

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 sh*t 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 f***in' 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.

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