Week 7, Weekly Task: THE BIG SHELBOWSKI...

~~~PART TWELVE~~~


LEN'S LIVING ROOM

The Len is slumped disconsolately back in his easy chair, fingers of one hand cupped over his sunglasses. Facing him on the couch are two uniformed policeman, one middle-aged, the other a fresh-faced rookie.

At the cut the portable phone, in The Len's lap, is chirping. The Len waits for the rings to end. When they do:


LEN: 1972 Pontiac LeBaron.

YOUNGER COP: Color?

LEN: Green. Some brown, or, uh, rust, coloration.

YOUNGER COP: And was there anything of value in the car? ?


DULLY:


LEN: Huh? Oh. Yeah. Tape deck. Couple of Creedence tapes. And there was a, uh....my briefcase.

YOUNGER COP: In the briefcase? ?

LEN: Papers. Just papers. You know, my papers. Business papers.

YOUNGER COP: And what do you do, sir? ?

LEN: I'm unemployed.

OLDER COP: ...Most people, we're working nights, they offer us coffee.


There is silence. Len continues to stare at a spot on the floor. The older cop stares at him.


LEN: ...Me, I don't drink coffee. But it's nice when they offer.


AT LENGTH:


LEN: ...Also, my Star Wars video collection was stolen.

YOUNGER COP: Your Star Wars videos were in the car?


The Len taps the floor with his foot.


LEN: No. Here.

YOUNGER COP: Oh...Separate incidents...


The Len stares at the floor.

Silence.

OLDER COP: Snap out of it, son.


The home phone starts ringing--a ring distinct from the chirp of the portable. The Len makes no move to answer it. Finally the rings stop as an answering machine kicks-on.


LEN: You find them much? Stolen cars?


Len's Voice on Machine says "The Len's not in. Leave a message after the beep." It takes a minute.


YOUNGER COP: Sometimes. I wouldn't hold out much hope for the tape deck though...

OLDER COP: (sarcastically) Or the Creedence...

LEN: And the, uh, the briefcase?


Beep.


FEMALE VOICE ON MACHINE: Mr. Shelbowski, I'd like to see you. Call when you get home and I'll send a car for you. My name is Kitty Shelbowski. I'm the woman who took the Star Wars videos.


Beep. Dial tone.


YOUNGER COP: Well, I guess we can close the file on that one.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART THIRTEEN~~~


TRACKING FORWARD

We are moving through the open living area of a large downtown Waterloo loft. A huge unfinished canvas, lit by standing industrial lights, dominates one wall. The furnishings are spare given the space. On the floor is The Len's brilliant Star Wars video collection.

We hear a rumble like an approaching bowling ball. The Len, standing in the middle of the loft, looks into the murky depths of the cavernous space.

Something huge and white hurtles towards The Len's head. As it roars overhead he ducks, and spins to watch it pass.

We see the backside of a naked woman in a sling suspended from a ceiling track rumbling over a canvas that lies on the floor. She is holding a paint bucket in one hand and a brush in the other, with which she flicks paint down at the canvas.

The Len turns again as he hears running footsteps. Two young men in paint-spattered shorts, T-shirts and sneakers reach the sling shortly after it reaches the end of its track and haul it back for another push.


VOICE: I'll be with you in a minute, Mr. Shelbowski.


She rumbles by in another pass.


VOICE: All right, we'll do the BLUE tomorrow. Levi. Rusty. Help me down.


The two men help Kitty out of her sling. She walks slowly over to The Len.


KITTY: Does the female form make you uncomfor-table, Mr. Shelbowski?

LEN: Is that what that's a picture of? ?

KITTY: In a sense, yes. My art has been commended as being strongly oyster-like. Which bothers some men. The word itself makes some men uncomfortable. Oysters.

LEN: Oh yeah?

KITTY: Yes, they don't like hearing it and find it difficult to say. Whereas without batting an eye a man will refer to his "Oscar Meyer" or his "Bahama Mama" or his "Johnsonville".

LEN: "Johnsonville"? ?

KITTY: Alright, Mr. Shelbowski, let's get down to cases. My father told me he's agreed to let you have the Star Wars videos, but as they were a gift from me to my late mother, they were not his to give. Now. As for this..."kidnapping"--

LEN: Huh? ?

KITTY: Yes, I know about it. And I know that you acted as courier. And let me tell you something: the whole thing stinks to high heaven.

LEN: Right, but let me explain something about those SW videos--

KITTY: Do you like the circus, Mr. Shelbowski?

LEN: Excuse me?

KITTY: The Circus. Elephants, clowns..the works. Cotten Candy. Do you like it?

LEN: I was talking about my SW videos...

KITTY: You're not interested in the circus?

LEN: You mean cotten candy?

KITTY: I like it too. It's a male myth about feminists that we hate the circus. It can be a natural, zesty enterprise. But unfortunately there are some people--it is called circusriasis in men, circomania in women--who engage in it compulsively and without joy.

LEN: Oh, no.

KITTY: Oh, Yes Mr. Shelbowski, these unfortunate souls cannot love the circus in the true sense of the word. Our mutual acquaintance Katie is one of these.

LEN: Listen, Katie, I'm sorry if your stepmother is a circo, but I don't see what it has to do with--do you have any kalhua?

KITTY: Take a look at this, sir.


She is aiming a remote at a projection TV. The screen flickers to life. A title card:

KASEY TREEHORN PRESENTS

SECOND CARD:

KARL HUNGUS

AND

KATIE LAJOYA

IN

A THIRD CARD:

MONKEYJAMMIN'

The Len is at the bar, a bottle of kalhua frozen halfway to his glass.

From the television set we hear a doorbell ring, and then a door of a circus tent opening.

On

I'm so inclined as to rent this movie now, seeing how I like what you're doing here, Sammy.

Of course, it might make more sense if I saw it, too..


~ James

Thanks, James.

I highly recommend to all that have yet to see "The Big Lebowski" to do so. It rocks.



~~~PART FOURTEEN~~~


LIMO

The Len sits in back holding a White Russian, listening to the chauffeur, a man of about the same age from whose livery cap a ponytail emerges.


DRIVER: --So he says, "My son can't hold a job, my daughter's married to a ****in' loser, and I got a rash on my ass so bad I can't hardly siddown. But you know me. I can't complain."


THROUGH RASPING LAUGHTER:


LEN: ****in' A, man. I got a rash. ****in' A, man. I gotta tell ya Tony.


He takes a sip of a freshly-mixed White Russian, which leaves milk on his mustache.


LEN: I was feeling really *****y earlier in the day, I'd lost a little money, I was down in the dumps.

TONY: Aw, forget about it.

LEN: Yeah, man! **** it! I can't be worrying about that ****. Life goes on, man!


The limo has rolled to a stop. The Len gets out, still holding his drink.


TONY: Home sweet home, Mr. S. Who're your friends in the Pimpmobile? ?

LEN: Huh? ?


His eyes on the rearview mirror, Tony jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

They followed us here.

The Len turns to look.

HIS POV:

Halfway up the block a Pimpmobile has pulled over to the curb. In the driver's seat we see a man's shape. And in the passenger seat we see a small man's shape...with pointy ears.

THE LEN

He scowls.


LEN: When did he-


The Len is grabbed from behind and muscled away in a half-nelson by another uniformed chauffeur.


SECOND CHAUFFEUR: Into the limo, you sonofa*****. No arguments.


As he is frog-marched towards another limo The Len holds his drink away from his chest and cups a hand underneath it.

LEN: ****, man! There's a beverage here!


The waiting limo's back door is flung open.

INSIDE

The Len is shoved in and awkwardly takes a seat facing the rear. The door is slammed behind him.


SHELBOWSKI: Start talking and talk fast you lousy bum!

WILLIAMANDT: We've been frantically trying to reach you, Len.


Williamandt sits catty-corner from The Len; directly across from The Len is The Big Shelbowski, a comforter across his knees.


SHELBOWSKI: Where's my ***damn money, you bum?!

LEN: Well we--I don't--

SHELBOWSKI: They did not receive the money, you nitwit! They did not receive the ***damn money! HER LIFE WAS IN YOUR HANDS!

WILLIAMANDT: This is our concern, Len.

LEN: No, man, nothing is ****ed here--

SHELBOWSKI: NOTHING IS ****ED?!?! THE ***DAMN PLANE HAS CRASHED INTO THE MOUNTAIN!!!


The Len takes a hurried sip from his drink.


LEN: C'mon man, who're you gonna believe? Those guys are--we dropped off the damn money--

SHELBOWSKI: WE?!

LEN: I--the royal we, you know, the editorial--I dropped off the money, exactly as per--Look, I've got certain information, certain things have come to light, and uh, has it ever occurred to you, man, that given the nature of all this new ****, that, uh, instead of running around blaming me, that this whole thing might just be, not, you know, not just such a simple, but uh--you know?

SHELBOWSKI:

~~~PART FIFTEEN~~~


COFFEE SHOP

The Len and Watson sit at the counter, both staring off into space, both absently stirring their coffee with little clinking noises.

AFTER A LONG MOMENT OF SILENCE:


WATSON: That wasn't her toe, Len...

LEN: Whose toe was it, Watson? ?

WATSON: How the **** should I know? I do know that nothing about it indicates--

LEN: The nail polish, Watson...

WATSON: Fine, Len. As if it's impossible to get some nail polish, apply it to someone else's toe--

LEN: Someone else's--where the **** are they gonna--

WATSON: You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me. There are ways, Len. You don't wanna know about it, believe me.

LEN: But Watson--

WATSON: I'll get you a toe by this afternoon--with nail polish. These ****ing amateurs. They send us a toe, we're supposed to **** ourselves with fear. Jesus Christ. My point is--

LEN: They're gonna kill her, Watson, and then they're gonna kill me--

WATSON: *sighs* Well that's just--*sighs*-- that's the stress talking, Len. So far we have what looks to me like a series of victimless crimes--

LEN: But what about the toe?!?!

WATSON: //pounds the bar// FORGET ABOUT THE ****ING TOE!!!


A waitress enters.


WAITRESS: Could you please keep your voices down--this is a family restaurant.

WATSON: Oh, please dear! I've got news for you: the Supreme Court has roundly rejected prior restraint!

LEN: Watson, this isn't a First Amendment thing, man.

WAITRESS: Sir, if you don't calm down I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

WATSON: Lady, I got buddies who died face-down in the muck so you and I could enjoy this family restaurant!


THE LEN GETS UP:


LEN: All right, I'm leaving. I'm sorry ma'am.

WATSON: Don't run away from this, Len! ***damnit, this affects all of us, man!


The Len has left frame; Watson calls after him:


WATSON: They're our basic freedoms!


He looks defiantly around.


WATSON: I'm staying. I'm finishing my coffee.


He stirs the coffee, bopping his head in time to the Muzak, affecting nonchalance.


WATSON: Enjoying my coffee.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART SIXTEEN~~~


LEN'S BATHROOM

A dripping noise.

The Len sits in the bathtub, staring stuporously, a joint pinched in one hand, a washcloth draped over his head.

We hear the phone ringing in the other roam.

The Len is staring at his toes, which protrude from the soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.

After The Len's outgoing message we hear:


VOICE THROUGH MACHINE: Mr. Shelbowski, this is Duty Officer Rolvaag of the W.P.D.


The Len looks stuporously up, his head swaying.


VOICE THROUGH MACHINE: We've recovered your vehicle. It can be claimed at the Northside Waterloo Auto Circus there on San Marnan.

LEN: (holding in a hit) Far out, man. Far ****in' out!

MESSAGE: You'll just need to present a--


The message is interrupted by loud smashing sounds, as of someone applying a baseball bat to the answering machine.


LEN: Hunh? ?


He looks blearily at the open doorway.

A monkey dressed in black leather with a cricket paddle is striding across the living room towards the bathroom.


LEN: Hey! This is a private residence, man!


The monkey has entered the bathroom and, in stride, swings the cricket paddle up to smash the overhead light. Two other monkeys are entering behind him.

The room is dark now except for spill from the living room; the monkeys are backlit shapes.

One of them holds a string at the other end of which a small animal skitters excitedly about the floor.

The Len looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.


LEN: Ah, nice marmot.


The monkey with the string scoops up the marmot and tosses it, screaming, into the bathtub.

The Len screams.

The marmot splashes frantically, biting at The Len in a frenzy of fearful aggression.


FIRST MONKEY: Vee vant zat money, Shelbowski.


The Len, screaming, grabs the lip of the tub and starts to hoist himself up but the first monkey lays a palm on top of his head and squishes him back into the water.


SECOND MONKEY: You think veer kidding und making mit de funny stuff, boyo?

THIRD MONKEY: Vee could do things you only dreamed of, Shelbowski.

SECOND MONKEY: Ja, vee could really do it, Shelbowski. Vee belief in nossing, boyo.


He scoops the marmot out of the water. It shakes itself off, spraying The Len.


LEN: Jesus!

MR. FRASSMO: Vee belief in nossing, Shelbowski! NOSSING, BOYO!!


The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking itself and convulsing in little sneezes.


LEN: Jesus Christ!

MR. FRASSMO: Tomorrow vee come back und cut off your chonson.

LEN: Ex-Excuse me? ?

MR. FRASSMO: I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON, BOYO!


The three monkeys turn to leave. Over their retreating backs:


SECOND MONKEY: Just sink about zat, Shelbowski.

MR. FRASSMO: Ja, your viggly penis, Shelbowski.

SECOND MONKEY: Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und skvush it, Shelbowski!


The three monkeys walk out of The Len's bungalow. The third monkey smashes the answering machine some more with the cricket paddle as they leave.

The Len watches them leave and slumps-down in the bathtub.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART SEVENTEEN~~~


NORTHSIDE WATERLOO AUTO CIRCUS

A policeman with a clipboard is leading The Len through a large parking lot.


POLICEMAN: You're lucky she wasn't chopped, Mr. Shelbowski. Must've been a joyride situation; they abandoned the car once they hit the retaining wall.


They have reached The Len's car. The driver's side exterior has been scraped raw. The policeman hands The Len a door handle and an exterior rear-view mirror.


POLICEMAN: These were on the road next to the car. You'll have to get in on the other side.


The Len climbs in the passenger side.


LEN: My ****ing briefcase, man! It's not here! ****!

POLICEMAN: Yeah, sorry, I saw that on the report. You're lucky they left the tape deck though....and the Creedance!

LEN: My ****ing briefcase! Jesus--what's that smell...man?

POLICEMAN: Uh, yeah. Probably a vagrant, slept in the car. Or perhaps just used it as a toilet, and moved on.


The Len tries to roll down the driver's window but it will not go; he bellows through the glass:


LEN: When will you find these guys? I mean, do you have any--you know--uh...promising leads?


The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.


POLICEMAN: Leads, yeah. I'll just check with the boys down at the Crime Lab. They've assigned four more detectives to the case. They got us working in shifts!


The Len looks sadly through his window at the policeman rocking back on his heels, his raucous laughter muffled by the glass.


POLICEMAN: Leads? *laughs some more* Leads...*starts laughing again*


To Be Continued...

~~~PART EIGHTEEN~~~


BOWLING ALLEY BAR

The Len, Watson and Jamesy sit at the bar, The Len with a White Russian, Watson with a beer, and Jamesy eating beer nuts.


JAMESY: And then they're gonna stamp on it?!

WATSON: Oh for Christ--will you shut the **** up, Jamesy!

LEN: I figure my only hope is that The Big Shelbowski kills me before the German-Irish Monkeys can cut my d**k off.

WATSON: Now that is ridiculous, Len. No one is going to cut your d**k off.

LEN: Thanks, Watson.

WATSON: Not if I have anything to say about it.

LEN: (bitterly) Yeah, thanks, Watson. That gives me a very secure feeling...

WATSON: Len--

LEN: That makes me feel all warm inside.

WATSON: Now Len--

LEN: This whole ****ing thing--I could be sitting here with just pee-stains on my Star Wars videos...


Watson sadly shakes his head.


WATSON: ****ing German-Irish Monkeys. Nothing changes. ****ing Nazi Monkeys...

JAMESY: They were Nazi Monkeys, Len? ?

WATSON: Come on, Jamesy, they were threatening castration!

JAMESY: Uh-huh.

WATSON: Are we gonna split hairs, here?

JAMESY: No--

WATSON: Am I wrong?

JAMESY: Well--

WATSON: Am I wrong?

LEN: They're nihilists.

WATSON: Huh?

LEN: They kept saying they believe in nothing!

WATSON: Nihilists! Jesus.


Watson looks haunted.


WATSON: Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Len, at least it's an ethos.

LEN: Yeah.

WATSON: And let's also not forget--let's not forget, Dude--that keeping wildlife, an amphibious rodent, for uh, domestic, you know, within the city--that isn't legal either.

LEN: What're you, a ****ing park ranger now?

WATSON: No, I'm--

LEN: Who gives a **** about the ****ing marmot?!?!

WATSON: --We're sympathizing here, Len--

LEN: **** your sympathy! I don't need your ****ing sympathy, man, I need my ****ing Johnson!

JAMESY: What do you need that for, Len? ?

WATSON: You gotta buck up, man! You can't be bringing this negative energy into the tournament--

LEN: **** the tournament! **** you, Watson!


There is a moment of stunned silence.


WATSON: **** the tournament?!


SAD; QUIET:


WATSON: Okay, Len. I can see you don't want to be cheered-up. C'mon Jamesy, let's go get a lane.


They leave The Len sitting morosely at the bar. As he stares DOWN INTO HIS EMPTY GLASS:


LEN: Another Caucasian, Gary.

VOICE: Right, Len.


STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:


LEN: Friends like these, huh Gary?

GARY: That's right, Len.


The pop song on the jukebox has ended; someone puts on "The Wizard of OZ."

A woman saunters up to the bar to take the stool that Watson vacated. She is twenty-ish, sexy, beautiful--TheEmperorsHand, perhaps. She has a gorgeous blonde hair and wears denims, a yoked shirt and a cowboy hat.


TO THE BARTENDER:


WOMAN: D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?


We r

I think it's about time I get this thing finished, no?


~~~PART NINETEEN~~~


KITTY'S LOFT

She strides toward us, naked under a robe which she is just cinching shut. Paint flecks her skin.


KITTY: Sammy, you haven't gone to the doctor.

LEN: No it's fine, really, uh--

KITTY: Do you have any news regarding my father's money?

LEN: I, uh... money, yeah, I gotta respecfully, 69 you know, tender my resignation on that matter, 'cause it looks like your mother really was kidnapped after all...

KITTY: She most certainly was not!

LEN: Hey man, why don't you ****ing listen occasionally? You might learn something. Now I got--

LEN: And please don't call her my mother.

LEN: Now I got--

KITTY: She is most definitely the perpetrator and not the victim.

LEN: I'm telling you, I got definitive evidence--

KITTY: From who? ?

LEN: From the main guy, Frassmo--

KITTY: Mister Frassmo?

LEN: Well--yeah, I guess--

KITTY: Her "co-star" in the circus-beaver picture?

LEN: Circus-beaver? You mean oyster?--I mean, you know the monkey?

KITTY: I may have introduced them for all I know... Look at my LP's. Under 'Monkeybahn.'


The Len fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.


KITTY: That was his group--they released one album in the mid-seventies.


The Len stops between two albums.


LEN: Roy Orbison....Pink Floyd...

KITTY: Huh? ? Monkeybahn. M-o-n-k-e-y. Their music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop.


The Len pulls out an album with a worn sleeve. On it is the group's name, Monkeybahn, the album name, Diddlebett, and a picture OF THREE YOUNG GERMAN-IRISH MONKEYS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW SLICKED-back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany. They are wearing severe but modishly retro suits. Each has his name under his picture--Frassmo, Curiousio; and Georgie Franz. A bed of nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.


LEN: Jeez. I miss vinyl...

KITTY: Is he pretending to be the abductor? ?

LEN: Well...yeah--

KITTY: Look, Sammy, you don't really kidnap someone that you're acquainted with. You can't get away with it if the hostage knows who you are.

LEN: Well yeah...I know that.

KITTY: So Frassmo has the money? ?

LEN: Well, no, not exactly. It's a complicated case, Kitty. Lotta ins. Lotta outs. And a lotta strands to keep in my head, man. Lotta strands in old Lenner's--

KITTY: Do you still have that doctor's number?

LEN: Huh? No, really, I don't even have the bruise any more, I--


She is scribbling.


KITTY: Please Sammy. I don't want to be responsible for any delayed after-effects.

LEN: Delayed after-eff--

KITTY: I want you to see him immediately.


She is picking up a telephone.


KITTY: I'll see if he's available. He's a good man, and thorough.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY~~~


CLOSE SHOT THE LEN

His eyes are closed, a headset on, his shirt off. Leaking tinnily through the headset we hear the opening bars of "Comin' Up Around the Bend."

Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his torso, a white-smocked figure taps at The Len's back. After a moment the figure circles to one side, out of frame. His hand reaches in to pull one arm of the headset away from The Len's ear, and as he does so the music issues more strongly.


VOICE: Could you slide your shorts down, Mr. Shelbowski, please?


The Len's eyes open.


LEN: Huh? ? No, she, she hit me right here.


The Len points just above his lip.


VOICE: I understand, sir. Could you slide your shorts down, please?


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY-ONE~~~


LEN'S CAR

The Len is driving home. A Creedence tape plays. The Len is sucking down a joint. He glances at the rear-view mirror-and, noticing something, looks again.

HIS POV

A Pimpmobile is following, a skinny man driving and a small man with pointy ears in the passenger seat.

THE LEN

His eyes still on the mirror, he absently takes the joint between thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicks it out the driver's window--except that the window is not open. The butt bounces off the glass and around the car, showering sparks.

LEN'S CROTCH

The glowing butt rolls down the car seat between his legs. The Len screams.

THE STREET

The car careens wildly as the surrounding traffic veers off to, make way, horns blaring. The car finally spins and comes to rest as he smashes head-on into a dumpster.

INSIDE THE CAR

The Len frantically grabs at his door, which won't open, and then slides over to push at the passenger door, which also won't open.


LEN: **** Me.


But he is sitting on the passenger side now, his sunglasses on crooked from the impact, away from the lit butt. He looks around for it.

Smoke is wisping up from between the Driver's seat cushion and back cushion.

He takes his beer and pours it in between the cushions. There is a hissing sound. But there is a piece of paper sticking out from between the cushions.

The Len pulls it out.

It is lined spiral notebook paper, slightly singed and dripping beer, covered with handwriting. In the upper right-hand corner is the name Qui-Gon Jimmy Sellers, and under that, Mrs. Ignantette 5th Period. The theme is titled "The Cage of Boredom Purchase." In red ink is a large circled F- and some handwritten marginal comments; misspelled words are circled in red throughout. The Len looks at it confusedly...


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY-TWO~~~


YOUNG ARENA INTERIOR

We are behind Watson, The Len, and Jamesy, facing the stage in the background where Mr. Roeper, The Len's balding landlord, is performing a dance moderne.

As Watson talks to The Len he leans in to him, his voice hushed, so as not to disturb the rest of the very sparse audience.


WATSON: He lives in North Cedar Falls on Ansborough, near the Innards-and-Ostrich Burger--

LEN: The Innards-and-Ostrich Burger is on University Avenue...

WATSON: I said near the Innards-and-Out Burger--

JAMESY: Those are good burgers, Watson.

WATSON: Shut the **** up, Jamesy. This kid is in the fourth grade, Len, and his father is--are you ready for this?--Jotun Denal Sellers.

LEN: Who the **** is that? ?

WATSON: Huh?

LEN: Who the **** is Jotun Denal Sellers?

WATSON: Who the f--have you ever heard of a little show called "Brand of the Trolls", Len?

LEN: Yeah...

WATSON: All but one thread mocked? There at Flaming Creek?

LEN: Yeah yeah, I know the ****ing show Watson, so what?

WATSON: ****ing Jotun Denal Sellers wrote 156 episodes, Len.

LEN: Uh-huh...

WATSON: The bulk of the series.

LEN: Uh-huh.

WATSON: Not exactly a lightweight.

LEN: No...

WATSON: And yet his son is a ****ing dunce.

LEN: Uh.

WATSON: Yeah, go figure. Well we'll go out there after the, uh, the...


He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.


WATSON: ...What have you. We'll, uh--

JAMESY: We'll be near the Innards-and-Ostrich Burger.

WATSON: Shut the **** up, Jamesy! We'll, uh, brace the kid--he'll be a pushover. We'll get that ****ing money, if he hasn't spent it already. Million ****ing clams. And yes, we'll be near the, uh--

JAMESY: Innards-and-Ostrich--

WATSON: Burger--have some burgers, some beers, a few laughs. Our ****ing troubles are over, Len.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY-THREE~~~


RESIDENTIAL AREA

The Len, Watson, and Jamesy are pulling-up in front of a dilapidated house sitting on a scrubby lot. Parked incongruously in front of the house is a brand new red Corvette.


LEN: **** me, man! That kid's already spent all the money, man!

WATSON: A new 'Vette? Hardly Len. The kid's still got, oh, 960 to 970 thousand, depending on the options. Wait in the car, Jamesy.


THE FRONT DOOR

Watson rings the bell. It is opened by a matronly Spanish woman.


WOMAN: Jace?

WATSON: Hello, xielar? My name is Watson B'omarr, we spoke on the phone, this is my associate Sammy Shelbowski.

WOMAN: Jace.

WATSON: May we uh, we wanted to talk about little Qui-Gon Jimmy. May we come in?

WOMAN: Jace.


They enter a dim living room and stand, looking about, as xielar

CALLS UP THE STAIRS:


XIELAR: Jimmy! Sweetie! Dat mang is here!


There is a rhythmic compressor sound; Watson places it and nudges The Len. At the other end of the living room a man lies on something that looks like a hospital gurney with its midsection enclosed by a motorized stainless-steel bubble. It is an iron lung, artificially breathing with distinct hisses in and out.


WATSON: That's him, Len.


Watson looks glowingly to him.


WATSON: And a good day to you, sir!!

XIELAR: See down, please.

WATSON: Thank you, ma'am.


He and The Len sit on a sagging green sofa. In a lowered voice, to xielar:


WATSON: Does he, uh....Is he still writing?

XIELAR: No, no. He has healt' problems.

WATSON: Uh-huh.


HE BELLOWS ACROSS THE ROOM:


WATSON: I just want to say, sir, that we're both--on a personal level--enormous fans. "Brand of the Trolls", especially the early episodes, has been a source of, uh, inspir---


There are footsteps on the stairs. Qui-Gon Jimmy, an eleven-year-old, looks at the two men.


XIELAR: See down, Sweetie. These are the policeman--

WATSON: No ma'am, I didn't mean to give the impression that we're police exactly. We're hoping that it will not be necessary to call the police.


He adopts his command voice in turning to Qui-Gon Jimmy:


WATSON: But that is up to little Jimmy here. Isn't it, Jimmy?


Watson pops the latches on his attache case and takes out the homework, which is now in a ziploc bag. He holds it out at arm's length, displaying it to Jimmy.


WATSON: Is this your homework, Jimmy?


Jimmy does not respond.


WATSON: Is this your homework, Jimmy?

LEN: Look, man, did you--

WATSON: Len, please!....Is this your homework, Jimmy?

LEN: Just ask him if he--ask him about the car, man!


Watson is still holding out the homework.


WATSON: Is this yours, Jimmy? Is this your homework, Jimmy?

LEN: Is the car out front yours?

WATSON: Is this your homework, Jimmy?

LEN: We know it's his ****ing homework! Where's the ****ing money, you lit

~~~PART TWENTY-FOUR~~~


LEN'S BUNGALOW

As The Len talks on the phone he is hammering a two-by-four into the floor just inside, and parallel to, the front door.


LEN: I accept your apology....No I, I just want to handle it myself from now on....No. That has nothing to do with it....Yes, it made it home, I'm calling from home. No, Watson, it didn't look like...Jimmy was about to crack!


He finishes hammering, rises and grabs a straightbacked chair that stands nearby.


LEN: Well that's your perception.... Well you're right, Watson, there is an unspoken message here, it's **** YOU!! LEAVE ME THE **** ALONE!!....Yeah, I'll be at practice.


He hangs up and has just finished sliding the chair into place with its top under the doorknob and its legs braced against the two-by-four, thus wedging the door closed, when the door is opened--outwards. The chair clatters the floor.


LEN: Huh? ?


Woo and the blonde gorilla who earlier peed on the Star Wars Video Collection stride in, kicking the chair away.


WOO: Pin your diapers on, Shelbowski. Kasey Treehorn wants to see you.

BLONDE GORILLA: And we know which Shelbowski you are, Shelbowski.

WOO: Yeah. Kasey Treehorn wants to talk to the deadbeat Shelbowski.

BLONDE GORILLA: You're not dealing with morons here.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY-FIVE~~~


BLACKNESS

Out of the blackness something is falling toward us. It is a woman, falling in slow motion, her limbs flailing, her mouth contorted by either fear or ecstasy. She is topless. She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a beat reappears, rising into the night sky.

BLACKHAWK BEACH

A crowd of mostly tanned middle-aged men with blow-dried hair, wearing jogging outfits and other expensively casual attire, are blanket-tossing the squealing young woman in nightmarish slow motion.

WIDER

It is a party, lit by festive beach lights and standing kerosene heaters. 1960's mainstream jazz, of the Mancini-Brubeck school, has been piped down to speakers on the beach'.

In long shot now the woman rises, squealing, disappears into darkness, descends into light, rises again.

A woman walks towards the camera through the pools of beach light. She is beaufiful, fortyish, wearing a cotton twill mini-skirt and a sexy tank-top. Behind her, the woman rises and falls, appears and disappears.


WOMAN Hello Len, thanks for coming. I'm Kasey Treehorn.


INSIDE THE BEACH HOUSE

The Len is looking around at the '60's modern decor.


LEN: This is quite a pad you got here, man. Completely unspoiled.

TREEHORN: What's your drink, Len?

LEN: White Russian, thanks.

TREEHORN: A White Russian...

LEN: So how's the smut business, Kasey?

TREEHORN: I wouldn't know, Len. I deal in publishing, entertainment, political advocacy, and--

LEN: Which one was Monkeyjammin'?

TREEHORN: Regrettably, it's true, standards have fallen in adult circus entertainment. It's video, Len. Now that we're competing with the amateurs, we can't afford to invest that little extra in story, production value, feeling.


She taps her forehead with one finger.


TREEHORN: People forget that the brain is the biggest erogenous zone--

LEN: On you, maybe.


She hands him the drink.


TREEHORN: Of course, you do get the good with the bad. The new technology permits us to do exciting things with interactive circo-erotic software. Wave of the future, Len. 100% electronic.

LEN: Uh-huh. Well, I still like to play Diddly-Winks manually.

TREEHORN: Of course you do. I can see you're anxious for me to get to the point. Well Len, here it is. Where's Katie?

LEN: 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.

LEN: 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, Len, 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.

LEN: 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 Len?

TREEHORN: Of course, there's that to discuss. Refill?

LEN: Does the Pope **** in the woods?

TREEHORN: Let's say a 10% finder's fee?

LEN: Okay, Kasey, done. I like the way you do business, man. Your money is being held by a kid named Qui-Gon Jimmy Sellers. He lives in North Cedar Falls, on Ansborough, near the Innards-and-Ostrich Burger. A real ****in' brat, but I'm sure your goons'll be able to get it off him, mean he's only eleven and he's flunking sociopathical studies. So if you'll j

~~~PART TWENTY-SIX~~~


We hear a thundering bass.

SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:

KASEY TREEHORN PRESENTS

ANOTHER TITLE CARD:

THE LEN

AND

KITTY SHELBOWSKI

IN

THIRD TITLE CARD:

MONKEYBALLS

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 Tenacious D's "Love Her Gently."

The Len is walking down a long corridor dressed as a cable repairman. The Len's face is washed with a brilliant light as the corridor opens onto a gleaming bowling alley.

In the center of the alley stands Kitty Shelbowski, singing operatic harmony to the Tenacious D song. She wears an armored breastplate and Norse headgear, has braided pigtails, and holds a trident.

The Len 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 Len 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 Len turns 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 Len 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 monkeys are entering from the background, emerging into a pool of light. It is the German-Irish Monkeys, advancing ominously, wielding oversized shears which they menacingly scissor.

The Len, now standing in a field of black, reacts to the advancing German-Irish Monkeys. He turns and runs, fists pumping.

The scissoring sound of the shears turns into the whoosh of car-bys. The field of black is punctured by headlights. The Len is running blearily down the middle of the Old Highway 20. Cars rush by on either side, horns blaring.

With the BLOO-WHUP of a short siren blast, a squad car with flashing gumballs pulls up.

SQUAD CAR

The Len sits in the back seat, his head lolling with the motion of the car as he blearily sings the theme of "Brand of the Trolls":


LEN: ~~He was "innocent". Not a charge was "true". And they say he ran awaaaaaay....mocking alllll....BRAND OF THE TROLLS!!!~~


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY-SEVEN~~~


CHIEF'S OFFICE

The Len is hurled against the chief's desk, which he bounces off of, to come to rest more or less seated in a facing chair.

His wallet is tossed onto the desk.

The chief leans forward, takes the wallet and sorts through it with disgusted incredulity.


CHIEF: This is your only I.D.?


He is looking at the Hy-Vee Shopper's Club card.


LEN: I know my rights...

CHIEF: You don't know ****, Shelbowski.

DUDE: I want a ****ing lawyer, man. I want Eric Roberts....or...Mr. Magoo...

CHIEF: What are you, some kind of sad-assed refugee from the ****ing sixties?

LEN: Uh-huh...

CHIEF: Ms. Treehorn tells us that she had to eject you from her garden party, that you were drunk and abusive.

LEN: That woman treats objects like women, man...

CHIEF: Ms. Treehorn draws a lot of water in this town, Shelbowski. You don't draw ****. We got a nice quiet hick community here, and I aim to keep it nice and quiet. So let me make something plain. I don't like you sucking around bothering our citizens, Shelbowski. I don't like your jerk-off name, I don't like your jerk-off face, I don't like your jerk-off behavior, and I don't like you, jerk-off --do I make myself clear?


The Len stares.


LEN: I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.


The Chief hurls his steaming mug of coffee at The Len. It hits him in the forehead with a thud, the scalding coffee splashing everywhere.

The Chief is already up off his chair, rounding the desk.


LEN: --Ow! ****ing fascist!


The Chief slaps him twice.


CHIEF: Stay out of Evansdale, Shelbowski!


He kicks the chair out from under The Len, and then starts kicking at him.


CHIEF: Stay out of Evansdale, deadbeat! Keep your ugly ****ing goldbricking ass out of my hick community!


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY-EIGHT~~~


CAB

The Len, in the back seat of a taxicab that rocks and squeaks with every bump, is gingerly touching at sore spots on his face and scalp.

"Bye-Bye-Bye" is on the radio.

LEN'S POV

The back of the driver, a large black man with rasta dreds under a knit cap.


LEN: Jesus, man, can you change the station?

DRIVER: **** you man! You don't like my ****ing music, get your own ****ing cab!

LEN: Man, I've had a--

DRIVER: I pull over and kick your ass out, man!

LEN: --had a rough night, and I hate ****ing N'Sync, man--

DRIVER: That's it! Outta this ****ing cab!


THE STREET

The cab screeches over towards the curb. The driver angrily gets out of the cab and rushes to the back driver's side door.


DRIVER: Outta my ****in' cab! Outta my ****in' cab!


He angrily opens the door and tugs The Len out of the cab violently and slams the door. He then gets back into the cab.


LEN: Wa-Wait...Man...


The cab squeels-away, leaving The Len standing there on the side of the road...looking dejected.

As this happens, another car, oncoming, its radio blaring Metallica, speeds by.

INSIDE THE OTHER CAR

It is a red convertible. The driver, singing loudly and badly along with the radio, her hair blowing in the wind, a dreamy smile on her face as she speeds along, higher than a kite, is Katie Shelbowski.

THE FOOTWELL

On the accelerator her right foot, in an open-toed bright red high-heeled shoe, has five painted toes.

When she downshifts her left foot enters to engage the clutch.

Five more toes.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART TWENTY-NINE~~~


LEN'S BUNGALOW

The Len staggers in the open front door, one hand pressed to a lump on his forehead, and looks around.


LEN: Jesus.


The place is a wreck. Furniture has been overturned, upholstery slashed, drawers dumped.

Quiet.

The Len begins to walk into the house and suddenly trips and falls flat on his face. He looks back to see what he tripped on....the 2 by 4 that he nailed onto the floor earlier.

The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.

The Len cringes.

Kitty emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing a bathrobe.


KITTY: Sammy.

LEN: Maude? ?


She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.


KITTY: Love me.


The Len is stupefied.


LEN: That's my robe...


THOOMP! ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:

BLACK

After a beat, a long sigh, and then a voice from the blackness:


KITTY: Tell me a little about yourself, Sammy.

LEN: Well, uh....Not much to tell.


A match is dragged across a headboard; The Len is lighting himself a joint. He shakes the match out to restore blackness except for the glowing tip of the joint.


LEN: I was, uh, one of the authors of the Lando's BBQ Statement.--The original Lando's BBQ Statement.

KITTY: Uh-huh.

LEN: Not the compromised second draft. And then I, uh....Ever hear of the Waterloo Seven?

KITTY: Mmnun.


Click--The Dude turns on a bedside lamp. He and Kitty lie next to each other in bed.


LEN: And then....let's see, I uh--music business briefly.

KITTY: Oh?

LEN: Yeah. Roadie for Metallica. Speed of Sound Tour.

KITTY: Uh-huh.

LEN: Bunch of @$$holes. And then, you know, little of this, little of that. My career's, uh, slowed down a bit lately.

KITTY: What do you do for fun?

LEN: Oh, you know, the usual. Bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback.


He climbs out of bed but Kitty remains in it. She wedges a pillow into the small of her back and clasps a hand on each kneecap. She pulls her knees in toward her chest to keep her pelvis raised.


KITTY: What happened to your house? ?

LEN: Kasey Treehorn trashed the place. Wanted to save the finder's fee.

KITTY: Finder's fee? ?

LEN: She thought I had your father's money, so she got me out of the way while she looked for it.

KITTY: It's not my father's money, it's the Foundation's. Why did she think you had it? And who does? ?

LEN: Qui-Gon Jimmy Sellers, an elementary-school kid. Real ****ing brat.


He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.


KITTY: Sammy--

LEN: It's a complicated case, Kitty...Lotta ins, lotta outs. Fortunately I've been adhering to a pretty strict, uh, drug regimen to keep my mind, you know, limber. I'm real ****ing close to your father's money, real ****ing close. It's just--

KITTY: I keep telling you, it's the Foundation's money. Father doesn't have any.

LEN: Huh? He's ****ing loaded.

KITTY: No no, the wealth was all Mother's.

LEN: But your father--he runs stuff, he--

KITTY: We did let Father run one of the companies, briefly, but he didn't do very well at it.

LEN: But he's--

KITTY: He helps administer the charities now, and I give him a reasonable allowance. He has no money

~~~PART THIRTY~~~


LIVING ROOM

The Len finishes punching a number into the phone.


PHONE VOICE: This is Watson B'omarr. I'm not in; leave a message after the beep.


FROM THE BEDROOM:


KITTY'S VOICE: What're you talking about? ?


Beep.


LEN: Watson, if you're there, pick up the ****ing phone. Pick it up, Watson, this is an emergency. I'm not--

WATSON: Len?

LEN: Watson, listen, I'm at my place, I need you to come pick me up--

WATSON: I can't drive, Len, it's erev shabbas.

LEN: Huh? ?

WATSON: Erev shabbas. I can't drive. I'm not even supposed to pick up the phone, unless it's an emergency.

LEN: It is a ****ing emergency!

WATSON: I understand. That's why I picked up the phone.

LEN: THEN WHY CAN'T YOU--****, never mind, just call Jamesy then, and ask him to--

WATSON: Len, I'm not supposed to make calls--

LEN: WATSON, YOU ****ING @$$HOLE, WE GOTTA GO TO DUNKERTON! COME PICK ME UP OR I'M OFF THE ****ING BOWLING TEAM!

KITTY'S VOICE: Sammy? ?


To Be Continued...

~~~PART THIRTY-ONE~~~


THE LEN

He emerges on his front stoop, pulling on a shirt. His attention is caught by something down the street.

HIS POV

A car is parked halfway down the block. We can see the shape of a skinny and bald man in the driver's seat.

THE LEN

Striding purposefully down the street.

HIS POV

The bald and skinny man leans forward and we hear the sound of the car's ignition coughing, but the engine will not turn over. More whines and coughs; no start.

The man hurriedly fumbles in front of him. He brings up a newspaper, which he holds before his face.

THE LEN

As he gets to the car. He reaches through the open driver's window and grabs the newspaper and hurls it to the ground. He is revved with nervous energy.


LEN: Get out of that ****ing car, man!


The man nervously complies. The Len flinches at the man's movement as he gets out.

The man cringes, reacting to The Len's flinch.

He is wearing a cheap blue serge suit. He is bald with a wierd sci-fi doo-hickey wrapped around the back of his head and a he has a mustache.

The Len shouts to cover his own fear:


LEN: Who the **** are you, man?!?! Come on, man!

MAN: Relax, man! No physical harm intended!

LEN: Who the **** are you? Why've you been following me? Come on, ****head!

MAN: Hey, relax man, I'm a brother shamus.


The Len is stunned.


LEN: Brother Shamus? Like an Irish monk? ?

MAN: Irish m--What the **** are you talking about? ? My name's Da Lobot! I'm a private snoop! Like you, man!

LEN: Huh? ?

DA LOBOT: A dick, man! And let me tell you something: I dig your work. Playing one side against the other--in bed with everybody--fabulous stuff, man.

LEN: I'm not a--ah, **** it, just stay away from my ****ing lady friend, man.

DA LOBOT: Hey hey, I'm not messing with your special lady--

LEN: She's not my special lady, she's my ****ing lady friend. I'm just helping her conceive, man!

DA LOBOT: Hey, man, I'm not--

LEN: Who're you working for? Shelbowski? Kasey Treehorn?

DA LOBOT: The Calrissians.

LEN: The? Who--Who the **** are the "Calrissians"?!?!

DA LOBOT: The Calrissians. It's a wandering daughter job. Katie Shelbowski, man. Her real name is Fawn Calrissian. Her smooth dad wants her back.


He is fumbling in his wallet.


DA LOBOT: See?


The Len looks at the picture.

It is probably a school portrait, unmistakably Katie, but fresh-faced, much younger looking, with a corn-fed smile and straight Partridge Family hair and bangs.


LEN: Jesus ****ing Christ...

DA LOBOT: Crazy, huh? Ran away a year ago.


He is holding out another picture.


DA LOBOT: Mr. Calrissian told me to show her this when I found her. The family mining colony.


A bleak mining colony and silo are the only features on a flat cloud-swept landscape.


DA LOBOT: Outside of Cloud City, Bespin. They think it'll make her homesick.

LEN: Boy. How ya gonna keep 'em down on the mining colony once they've seen Karl Hungus...


He hands back the picture.


LEN: She's been kidnapped, Da Lobot. Or maybe not, but she's definitely not around.

DA LOBOT: ****, man! That's terrible!

LEN: Yeah, it sucks.

DA LOBOT: Well maybe you and me could pool our resources--trade information--professional courtesy--compeers, you know--


We hear distant

~~~PART THIRTY-TWO~~~


DENNY'S

Four people sit at a booth. The three talking-monkeys: Mister Frassmo, Curiousio, Georgie Franz, all in black leather, and a young woman with long stringy blonde hair, wearing torn and patched jeans and a ribbed sleeveless tee-shirt, worn thin with age. She is apparently braless, and is teutonically pale with birthmarks on her face and arms.

Notable is her camera-side leg, which ends in a bandage-swaddled foot. Dried rust-colored blood stains the tip of the bandage. The four are arguing, loudly, in German-Irish. They seem very unhappy. A waitress enters with a checkpad and pen.


WAITRESS: You folks ready?


The German-Irish shouting stops. Frassmo looks sourly up.


FRASSMO: I haff lingenberry pancakes, missy.

CURIOUSIO: Lingenberry pancakes.

GEORGIE FRANZ: Sree picks in blanket.


The woman speaks to Frassmo in German-Irish. He nods.


FRASSMO: She has Lingenberry pancakes, missy.


To Be Continued...

~~~PART THIRTY-THREE~~~


WATSON'S VAN

Watson's eyes are on the road as he listens, driving, to The Len, whose speech is occasionally punctuated by yaps from the acid-tripping hyena in the back seat.


LEN: I mean we totally ****ed it up, man. We ****ed up his pay-off. And got the kidnappers all pissed off, and The Big Shelbowski yelled at me a lot, but he didn't do anything. Huh?

WATSON: Well it's, sometimes the cathartic, uh.

LEN: I'm saying if he knows I'm a ****-up, then why does he still leave me in charge of getting back his wife? Because he ****ing doesn't want her back, man! He's had enough! He no longer digs her! It's all a show! But then, why didn't he give a **** about his million bucks? I mean, he knew we didn't hand off his briefcase, but he never asked for it back!

WATSON: What's your point, Len?

LEN: His million bucks was never in it, man! There was no money in that briefcase! He was hoping they'd kill her! You throw out a ringer for a ringer!

WATSON: Yeah?

LEN: **** yeah!

WATSON: Okay, but how does all this add up to an emergency? ?

LEN: Huh?

WATSON: I'm saying, I see what you're getting at, Len, he kept the money, but my point is, here we are, it's shabbas, the sabbath, which I'm allowed to break only if it's a matter of life and death--

LEN: Watson, come off it. You're not even ****ing Jewish, you're--

WATSON: What the **** are you talking about?

LEN: You're ****ing Polish Catholic--

WATSON: What the **** are you talking about?!?! I converted when I married Cynthia! Come on, Len!

LEN: Yeah, and you were--

WATSON: You know this!

LEN: And you were divorced five ****ing years ago...

WATSON: Yeah? What do you think happens when you get divorced? You turn in your library card? Get a new driver's license? You stop being Jewish?

LEN: This driveway.


AS HE TURNS:


WATSON: I'm as Jewish as ****ing Tevye

LEN: It's just part of your whole sick Cynthia thing. Taking care of her ****ing acid-tripping hyena. Going to her ****ing synagogue. You're living in the ****ing past, man...

WATSON: Three thousand years of beautiful tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--YOU'RE ***DAMN RIGHT I'M LIVIN' IN THE ****ING PAST! I--Jesus. What the hell happened? ?


He is looking off as the van slows. The Len looks where Watson is looking.

THE SHELBOWSKI MANSION

Watson's van pulls up the drive into the foreground and he and The Len get out.

Both are gaping off at the front lawn.


WATSON: Jesus Christ...


To Be Continued...

~~~PART THIRTY-FOUR~~~


THEIR POV

Tire treads lead across the manicured front lawn to where a little red sports car rests with its hood crumpled into a oak tree trunk.

TRACKING DOWN THE GREAT HALLWAY

Through the French doors at its far end we can see Katie, naked, briefly bouncing on the diving board before splashing into the illuminated pool outside. Heavy metal music filters in from a boom box by the pool.

Williamandt, approaching, stoops and straightens, stoops and straightens, picking up the discarded clothes that run the length of the hall.


WILLIAMANDT: He can't see you, Len.


We pull The Len and Watson as they approach the doors to the great study. Watson's acid-tripping hyena follows, stiffly waving its tail.


LEN: (sarcastically) Where'd she been, man?

WILLIAMANDT: Visiting friends of hers in Des Moines. Just picked-up and left, never bothered to tell us.

LEN: (sarcastically) But I guess the nihilists knew where she was...

WATSON: Jesus, Len! She never even kidnapped herself...

WILLIAMANDT: Who is this gentleman, Len?

WATSON: Who'm I? I'm a ****ing VETERAN, that's who I am!

WILLIAMANDT: You shouldn't go in there, Len! He's very angry!


BANG--The Len and Watson push through the double doors into--

THE GREAT ROOM

The Big Shelbowski turns at the sound of the door. His wheelchair hums as he spins it around.


SHELBOWSKI: (bitterly) Well, she's back. No thanks to you...

LEN: Where's the money, Shelbowski?

WATSON: A MILLION BUCKS FROM ****ING NEEDY LITTLE RURAL ACHIEVERS! YOU ARE SCUM, MAN!


The acid-tripping hyena yaps.


SHELBOWSKI: Who the hell is he?

WATSON: I'll tell you who I am! I'm the guy who's gonna KICK YOUR PHONY GOLDBRICKING ASS!

LEN: We know the briefcase was empty, man. We know you kept the million bucks for yourself!

SHELBOWSKI: Well, you have your story, I have mine. I say I entrusted the money to you, and you stole it!

WATSON: AS IF WE WOULD EVER DREAM OF TAKING YOUR BULL**** MONEY!

LEN: You thought Katie'd been kidnapped and you could use it as a pretext to make some money disappear! All you needed was a sap to pin it on, and you'd just met me. You thought, hey, a deadbeat, a loser, someone the square community won't give a **** about!

SHELBOWSKI: Well? Aren't ya?

LEN: Well....yeah...

SHELBOWSKI: All right, get out. Both of you.

WATSON: Look at that ****ing phony, Len! Pretending to be a ****ing millionaire!

SHELBOWSKI: I said out! Now.

WATSON: Let me tell you something else. I've seen a lot of spinals, Len, and this guy is a fake. A ****ing goldbricker.


He is crossing to Shelbowski.


WATSON: This guy ****ing walks. I've never been more certain of anything in my life!

SHELBOWSKI: Stay away from me, mister!


Watson reaches around from behind and hoists The Big Shelbowski out of the wheelchair by his armpits.


WATSON: Walk, you ****ing phony!


The Big Shelbowski waggles helplessly, his rubbery feet grazing the floor like a Raggedy Ann's. The acid-tripping hyena gaily leaps and yaps.


SHELBOWSKI: Put me down, you son of a *****!

LEN:

~~~PART THIRTY-FIVE~~~


TEN PINS

Scattered at the cut.

LEN AND WATSON

Each with a beer at the scoring table.


WATSON: Sure you'll see some tank battles. But fighting in desert is very different from fighting in canopy jungle.

LEN: Uh-huh.

WATSON: I mean 'Nam was a foot soldier's war whereas, uh, this thing should be a ****ing cakewalk. I mean I had an M16, Jacko, not an Abrams ****ing tank. Just me and Charlie, man, eyeball to eyeball.

LEN: Yeah.

WATSON: That's ****in' combat. The man in the black pyjamas, Len. Worthy ****in' adversary.

JAMESY: Who's in pyjamas, Watson? ?

WATSON: (passively) Shut the **** up, Jamesy. 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 Len and Watson look.

Lowell is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is restrained by Stewart.


LOWELL: What'th thith "day of retht" thit, man?!


Watson looks at him innocently.


LOWELL: What ith thith bullthit, man? I don't ****ing care! It don't matter to Chrithtopher! But you're not fooling me! You might fool the ****th in the league offith, but you don't fool Chrithtopher! It'th buth league thych-out thtuff! HA-HA! Laughable, man! I would've ****ed you in the ath Thaturday, I'll **** you in the ath nextht Wednethday inthtead!


LOWELL

He makes hip-grinding coital motions as Stewart leads him away.


LOWELL: WOO!! You got a date Wednethday, baby!


Watson, his head cocked, and The Len, peeking over his shades, watch him go.


WATSON: He's cracking.


To Be Continued...