The Big Lebowski Page #31

WALTER:

It's all over, man! We call your

f***ing bluff!

DUDE:

WALTER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! HE'S

CRIPPLED! PUT HIM DOWN!

WALTER:

Sure, I'll put him down, Dude. RAUSS!

ACHTUNG, BABY!!

He shoves the big Lebowski forward and he crumples to the

floor, weeping.

WALTER:

Oh, sh*t.

LEBOWSKI:

(sobbing)

You're bullies! Cowards, both of

you!

Walter is abashed. The Big Lebowski flails about on the

floor.

WALTER:

Oh, sh*t.

DUDE:

He can't walk, Walter!

WALTER:

Yeah, I can see that, Dude.

LEBOWSKI:

You monsters!

DUDE:

Help me put him back in his chair.

Walter moves to comply.

WALTER:

Sh*t, sorry man.

THROUGH HIS TEARS:

LEBOWSKI:

Stay away from me! You bullies!

You and these women! You won't leave

a man his f***ing balls!

DUDE:

Walter, you f***!

WALTER:

Sh*t, Dude, I didn't know. I

wouldn't've done it if I knew he was

a f***ing crybaby.

DUDE:

We're sorry, man. We're really sorry.

The Dude has picked up the Big Lebowski's plaid lap warmer

and is frantically tucking it back in around his waist and

batting the dog away.

DUDE:

There ya go. Sorry man.

Walter, puzzled, hands on hips, stands over the big Lebowski.

WALTER:

Sh*t. He didn't look like a spinal.

TEN PINS:

Scattered at the cut.

DUDE AND WALTER:

Each with a beer at the scoring table.

WALTER:

Sure you'll see some tank battles.

But fighting in desert is very

different from fighting in canopy

jungle.

DUDE:

Uh-huh.

WALTER:

I mean 'Nam was a foot soldier's war

whereas, uh, this thing should be a

f***ing cakewalk. I mean I had an

M16, Jacko, not an Abrams f***ing

tank. Just me and Charlie, man,

eyeball to eyeball.

DUDE:

Yeah.

WALTER:

That's f***in' combat. The man in

the black pyjamas, Dude. Worthy

f***in' adversary.

DONNY:

Who's in pyjamas, Walter?

WALTER:

Shut the f*** up, Donny. Not a bunch

of fig-eaters with towels on their

heads tryin' to find reverse on a

Soviet tank. This is not a worthy--

VOICE:

HEY!

The Dude and Walter look.

Quintana is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is

restrained by O'Brien.

QUINTANA:

What's this "day of rest" sh*t, man?!

Walter looks at him innocently.

QUINTANA:

What is this bullshit, man? I don't

f***ing care! It don't matter to

Jesus! But you're not fooling me!

You might fool the fucks in the league

office, but you don't fool Jesus!

It's bush league psych-out stuff!

Laughable, man! I would've f***ed

you in the ass Saturday, I'll f***

you in the ass next Wednesday instead!

QUINTANA:

He makes hip-grinding coital motions as O'Brien leads him

away.

QUINTANA:

You got a date Wednesday, man!

Walter, his head cocked, and the Dude, peeking over his

shades, watch him go.

WALTER:

He's cracking.

BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT

Donny, Walter and the Dude emerge from the alley, each holding

his leatherette ball satchel.

WALTER:

A tree of life, Dude. To all who

cling to it.

They react to the droning synthesizer-based technopop coming

from a boom box.

REVERSE:

Dieter, Kieffer and Franz, in shiny black leather, stand in

a line facing them in the all-but-deserted lot. Behind them

orange flames lick gently at the Dude's car, which has been

put to the torch. The orange flames glow on the men's

creaking leather. Next to the car are three motorcycles,

parked in a neat row. The Dude looks sadly at the burning

car.

DUDE:

They finally did it. They killed my

f***ing car.

DIETER:

Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.

KIEFFER:

Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.

FRANZ:

Ja, it seems you forgot our little

deal, Lebowski.

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