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Umptieth
Site
1. Prologue
2. Vincent Vega & Marsellus Wallace's Wife
3. The Gold Watch
4. Jules, Vincent, Jimmie & The Wolf
5. Epilogue
Two of these people are a Young Man and a Young Woman. The Young Man has a slight working-class English accent and, like his fellow countryman, smokes cigarettes like they're going out of style.
It is impossible to tell where the Young Woman is from or how old she is; everything she does contradicts something she did. The boy and girl sit in a booth. Their dialogue is to be said in a rapid-pace "His Girl Friday" fashion.
Young Man: No, forget it, it's too risky. I'm through doin' that shit.
Young Woman: You always say that, the same thing every time: never again, I'm through, too dangerous.
Young Man: I know that's what I always say. I'm always right too, but --
Young Woman: -- but you forget about it in a day or two --
Young Man: -- yeah, well, the days of me forgittin' are over, and the days of me rememberin' have just begun.
Young Woman: When you go on like this, you know what you sound like?
Young Man: I sound like a sensible fucking man, is what I sound like.
Young Woman: You sound like a duck. (imitates a duck) Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack...
Young Man: Well take heart, 'cause you're never gonna hafta hear it again. Because since I'm never gonna do it again, you're never gonna hafta hear me quack about how I'm never gonna do it again.
Young Woman: After tonight.
The boy and girl laugh, their laughter putting a pause in there, back and forth.
Young Man: (with a smile) Correct. I got all tonight to quack.
A Waitress comes by with a pot of coffee.
Waitress: Can I get anybody anymore coffee?
Young Woman: Oh yes, thank you.
The Waitress pours the Young Woman's coffee. The Young Man lights up another cigarette.
Young Man: I'm doin' fine.
The Waitress leaves. The Young Man takes a drag off of his smoke. The Young Woman pours a ton of cream and sugar into her coffee. The Young Man goes right back into it.
Young Man: I mean the way it is now, you're takin' the same fuckin' risk as when you rob a bank. You take more of a risk. Banks are easier! Federal banks aren't supposed to stop you anyway, during a robbery. They're insured, why should they care? You don't even need a gun in a federal bank. I heard about this guy, walked into a federal bank with a portable phone, handed the phone to the teller, the guy on the other end of the phone said: "We got this guy's little girl, and if you don't give him all your money, we're gonna kill 'er."
Young Woman: Did it work?
Young Man: Fuckin' A it worked, that's what I'm talkin' about! Knucklehead walks in a bank with a telephone, not a pistol, not a shotgun, but a fuckin' phone, cleans the place out, and they don't lift a fuckin' finger.
Young Woman: Did they hurt the little girl?
Young Man: I don't know. There probably never was a little girl -- the point of the story isn't the little girl. The point of the story is they robbed the bank with a telephone.
Young Woman: You wanna rob banks?
Young Man: I'm not sayin' I wanna rob banks, I'm just illustrating that if we did, it would be easier than what we been doin'.
Young Woman: So you don't want to be a bank robber?
Young Man: Naw, all those guys are goin' down the same road, either dead or servin' twenty.
Young Woman: And no more liquor stores?
Young Man: What have we been talking about? Yeah, no-more-liquor-stores. Besides, it ain't the giggle it usta be. Too many foreigners own liquor stores. Vietnamese, Koreans, they can't fuckin' speak English. You tell 'em: "Empty out the register," and they don't know what it fuckin' means. They make it too personal. We keep on, one of those gook motherfuckers' gonna make us kill 'em.
Young Woman: I'm not gonna kill anybody.
Young Man: I don't wanna kill anybody either. But they'll probably put us in a situation where it's us of them. And if it's not the gooks, it these old Jews who've owned the store for fifteen fuckin' generations. Ya got Grandpa Irving sittin' behind the counter with a fuckin' Magnum. Try walkin' into one of those stores with nothin' but a telephone, see how far it gets you. Fuck it, forget it, we're out of it.
Young Woman: Well, what else is there, day jobs?
Young Man: (laughing) Not this life.
Young Woman: Well what then?
He calls to the Waitress.
Young Man: Garcon! Coffee!
Then looks to his girl.
Young Man: This place.
The Waitress comes by, pouring him some more.
Waitress: (snotty) "Garcon" means boy.
She splits.
Young Woman: Here? It's a coffee shop.
Young Man: What's wrong with that? People never rob restaurants, why not? Bars, liquor stores, gas stations, you get your head blown off stickin' up one of them. Restaurants, on the other hand, you catch with their pants down. They're not expecting to get robbed, or not as expecting.
Young Woman: (taking to idea) I bet in places like this you could cut down on the hero factor.
Young Man: Correct. Just like banks, these places are insured. The managers don't give a fuck, they're just tryin' to get ya out the door before you start pluggin' diners. Waitresses, forget it, they ain't takin' a bullet for the register. Busboys, some wetback gettin' paid a dollar fifty a hour gonna really give a fuck you're stealin' from the owner. Customers are sittin' there with food in their mouths, they don't know what's goin' on. One minute they're havin' a Denver omelette, next minute somebody's stickin' a gun in their face.
The Young Woman visibly takes in the idea. The Young Man continues in a low voice.
Young Man: See, I got the idea last liquor store we stuck up. 'Member all those customers kept comin' in?
Young Woman: Yeah.
Young Man: Then you got the idea to take everybody's wallet.
Young Woman: Uh-huh.
Young Man: That was a good idea.
Young Woman: Thank you.
Young Man: We made more from the wallets then we did the register.
Young Woman: Yes we did.
Young Man: A lot of people go to restaurants.
Young Woman: A lot of wallets.
Young Man: Pretty smart, huh?
The Young Woman scans the restaurant with this new information. She sees all the Patrons eating, lost in conversations. The tires Waitress, taking orders. The Busboys going through the motions, collecting dishes. The Manager complaining to the Cook about something. A smiles breaks out on the Young Woman's face.
Young Woman: Pretty smart. (into it) I'm ready, let's go, right here, right now.
Young Man: Remember, same as before, you're crowd control, I handle the employees.
Young Woman: Got it.
They both take out their .32-caliber pistols and lay them on the table. He looks at her and she back at him.
Young Woman: I love you, Pumpkin.
Young Man: I love you, Honey Bunny.
And with that, Pumpkin and Honey Bunny grab their weapons, stand up and rob the restaurant. Pumpkin's robbery persona is that of the in-control professional. Honey Bunny's is that of the psychopathic, hair-triggered, loose cannon.
Pumpkin: (yelling to all) Everybody be cool this is a robbery!
Honey Bunney: Any of you fuckin' pricks move and I'll execute every one of you motherfuckers! Got that?
Cut to:
Credit sequence | ||
Pulp Fiction | ||
Jules: -- okay now, tell me about the hash bars?
Vincent: What so you want to know?
Jules: Well, hash is legal there, right?
Vincent: Yeah, it's legal, but is ain't a hundred percent legal. I mean you can't walk into a restaurant, roll a joint, and start puffin' away. You're only supposed to smoke in your home or certain designated places.
Jules: Those are hash bars?
Vincent: Yeah, it breaks down like this: it's legal to buy it, it's legal to own it and, if you're the proprietor of a hash bar, it's legal to sell it. It's legal to carry it, which doesn't really matter 'cause -- get a load of this -- if the cops stop you, it's illegal for them to search you. Searching you is a right that the cops in Amsterdam don't have.
Jules: That did it, man -- I'm fuckin' goin', that's all there is to it.
Vincent: You'll dig it the most. But you know what the funniest thing about Europe is?
Jules: What?
Vincent: It's the little differences. A lotta the same shit we got here, they got there, but there they're a little different.
Jules: Examples?
Vincent: Well, in Amsterdam, you can buy beer in a movie theatre. And I don't mean in a paper cup either. They give you a glass of beer, like in a bar. In Paris, you can buy beer at MacDonald's. Also, you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?
Jules: They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?
Vincent: No, they got the metric system there, they wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.
Jules: What'd they call it?
Vincent: Royale with Cheese.
Jules: (repeating) Royale with Cheese. What'd they call a Big Mac?
Vincent: Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call it Le Big Mac.
Jules: What do they call a Whopper?
Vincent: I dunno, I didn't go into a Burger King. But you know what they put on french fries in Holland instead of ketchup?
Jules: What?
Vincent: Mayonnaise.
Jules: Goddamn!
Vincent: I seen 'em do it. And I don't mean a little bit on the side of the plate, they fuckin' drown 'em in it.
Jules: Uuccch!
Jules: We should have shotguns for this kind of deal.
Vincent: How many up there?
Jules: Three or four.
Vincent: Counting our guy?
Jules: I'm not sure.
Vincent: So there could be five guys up there?
Jules: It's possible.
Vincent: We should have fuckin' shotguns.
Vincent and Jules, their long matching overcoats practically
dragging on the ground, walk through the courtyard of what
looks like a hacienda-style Hollywood apartment building.
We track alongside.
Vincent: What's her name?
Jules: Mia.
Vincent: How did Marsellus and her meet?
Jules: I dunno, however people meet people. She usta be an actress.
Vincent: She ever do anything I woulda saw?
Jules: I think her biggest deal was she starred in a pilot.
Vincent: What's a pilot?
Jules: Well, you know the shows on TV?
Vincent: I don't watch TV.
Jules: Yes, but you're aware that there's an invention called television, and on that invention they show shows?
Vincent: Yeah.
Jules: Well, the way they pick the shows on TV is they make one show, and that show's called a pilot. And they show that one show to the people who pick the shows, and on the strength of that one show, they decide if they want to make more shows. Some get accepted and become TV programs, and some don't, and become nothing. She starred in one of the ones that became nothing.
They enter the apartment building.
Vincent and Jules walk through the reception area and wait for the elevator.
Jules: You remember Antwan Rockamora? Half-black, half-Samoan, usta call him Tony Rocky Horror.
Vincent: Yeah maybe, fat right?
Jules: I wouldn't go so far as to call the brother fat. He's got a weight problem. What's the nigger gonna do, he's Samoan.
Vincent: I think I know who you mean, what about him?
Jules: Well, Marsellus fucked his ass up good. And word around the campfire, it was on account of Marsellus Wallace's wife.
The elevator arrives, the men step inside.
Vincent: What'd he do, fuck her?
Jules: No no no no no no no, nothin' that bad.
Vincent: Well what then?
Jules: He gave her a foot massage.
Vincent: A foot massage?
Jules nods his head: "Yes."
Vincent: That's all?
Jules nods his head: "Yes."
Vincent: What did Marsellus do?
Jules: Sent a couple of guys over to his place. They took him out on the patio of his apartment, threw his ass over the balcony. Nigger fell four stories. They had this garden at the bottom, enclosed in glass, like one of them greenhouses -- nigger fell through that. Since then, he's kinda developed a speech impediment.
The elevator doors open, Jules and Vincent exit.
Vincent: That's a damn shame.
Steadycam in front of Jules and Vincent as they make a beeline down the hall.
Vincent: Still I hafta say, play with matches, ya get burned.
Jules: Whaddya mean?
Vincent: You don't be givin' Marsellus Wallace's new bride a foot massage.
Jules: You don't think he overreacted?
Vincent: Antwan probably didn't expect Marsellus to react like he did, but he had to expect a reaction.
Jules: It was a foot massage, a foot massage is nothing, I give my mother a foot massage.
Vincent: It's laying hands on Marsellus Wallace's new wife in a familiar way. Is it as bad as eatin' her out -- no, but you're in the same fuckin' ballpark.
Jules stops Vincent.
Jules: Whoa...whoa...whoa...stop right there. Eatin' a bitch out, and givin' a bitch a foot massage ain't even the same fuckin' 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 fuckin' sport. Foot massages don't mean shit.
Vincent: Have you ever given a foot massage?
Jules: Don't be tellin' me about foot massages -- I'm the fuckin' foot master.
Vincent: Given a lot of 'em?
Jules: Shit 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: Fuck you.
He starts walking down the hall. Vincent, smiling, walks a little bit behind.
Vincent: How many?
Jules: Fuck 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- motherfuckin-house, fuckin' up the way the nigger talks. That ain't right, man. Motherfucker do that to me, he better paralyze my ass, 'cause I'd kill'a motherfucker.
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 fuckin' cool about 'em. This sensual thing's goin' on that nobody's talkin about, but you know it and she knows it, fuckin' Marsellus knew it, and Antwan shoulda known fuckin' better. That's his fuckin' wife, man. He ain't gonna have a sense of humor about that shit.
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.
Vincent: I'm not gonna be a bad boy.
Jules shakes his head and mumbles to himself.
Jules: Bitch gonna kill more niggers than time.
Vincent: What was that?
Jules: Nothin'. Let's get into character.
Vincent: What'd you say?
Jules: I didn't say shit. Let's go to work.
Vincent: Don't play with me, you said somethin', now what was it?
Jules: (referring to the job) Do you wanna do this?
Vincent: I want you to repeat what you said.
Jules: That door's gonna open in about thirty seconds, so git yourself together --
Vincent: -- my self is together --
Jules: -- bullshit it is. Stop thinkin' 'bout that Ho, and get yourself together like a qualified pro.
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
Roger
Brett
Vincent and Jules take in the place, with their hands in their
pockets. Jules is the one who does the talking.
The black young man, who open the door, will, as the scene
progresses, back into the corner.
A young blond-haired surfer kid with a "Flock of Seagulls"
haircut, who has yet to say a word, sits at the table with a
big sloppy hamburger in his hand.
A white, preppy-looking sort with a blow-dry haircut.
Jules: How you boys doin'?
No answer.
Jules: (to Brett) Am I trippin', or did I just ask you a question.
Brett: We're doin' okay.
As Jules and Brett talk, Vincent moves behind the young Guys.
Jules: Do you know who we are?
Brett shakes his head: "No."
Jules: We're associates of your business partner Marsellus Wallace, you remember your business partner dont'ya?
No answer.
Jules: (to Brett) Now I'm gonna take a wild guess here: you're Brett, right?
Brett: I'm Brett.
Jules: I thought so. Well, you remember your business partner Marsellus Wallace, dont'ya Brett?
Brett: I remember him.
Jules: Good for you. Looks like me and Vincent caught you at breakfast, sorry 'bout that. What'cha eatin'?
Brett: Hamburgers.
Jules: Hamburgers. The cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast. What kinda hamburgers?
Brett: Cheeseburgers.
Jules: No, I mean where did you get'em? MacDonald's, Wendy's, Jack-in-the- Box, where?
Brett: Big Kahuna Burger.
Jules: Big Kahuna Burger. That's that Hawaiian burger joint. I heard they got some tasty burgers. I ain't never had one myself, how are they?
Brett: They're good.
Jules: Mind if I try one of yours?
Brett: No.
Jules: Yours is this one, right?
Brett: Yeah.
Jules grabs the burger and take a bite of it.
Jules: Uuummmm, that's a tasty burger. (to Vincent) Vince, you ever try a Big Kahuna Burger?
Vincent: No.
Jules holds out the Big Kahuna.
Jules: You wanna bite, they're real good.
Vincent: I ain't hungry.
Jules: Well, if you like hamburgers give 'em a try sometime. Me, I can't usually eat 'em 'cause my girlfriend's a vegetarian. Which more or less makes me a vegetarian, but I sure love the taste of a good burger. (to Brett) You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in France?
Brett: No.
Jules: Tell 'em, Vincent.
Vincent: Royale with Cheese.
Jules: Royale with Cheese, you know why they call it that?
Brett: Because of the metric system?
Jules:
Check out the big brain on Brett.
You'a smart motherfucker, that's
right. The metric system.
(he points to a fast
food drink cup)
What's in this?
Brett: Sprite.
Jules: Sprite, good, mind if I have some of your tasty beverage to wash this down with?
Brett: Sure.
Jules grabs the cup and takes a sip.
Jules: Uuuuummmm, hit's the spot! (to Roger) You, Flock of Seagulls, you know what we're here for?
Roger nods his head: "Yes."
Jules: Then why don't you tell my boy here Vince, where you got the shit hid.
Marvin: It's under the be --
Jules: -- I don't remember askin' you a goddamn thing. (to Roger) You were sayin'?
Roger: It's under the bed.
Vincent moves to the bed, reaches underneath it, pulling out a black snap briefcase.
Vincent: Got it.
Vincent flips the two locks, opening the case. We can't see what's inside, but a small glow emits from the case. Vincent just stares at it, transfixed.
Jules: We happy?
No answer from the transfixed Vincent.
Jules: Vincent!
Vincent looks up at Jules.
Jules: We happy?
Closing the case.
Vincent: We're happy.
Brett: (to Jules) Look, what's your name? I got his name's Vincent, but what's yours?
Jules: My name's Pitt, and you ain't talkin' your ass outta this shit.
Brett: I just want you to know how sorry we are about how fucked up things got between us and Mr. Wallace. When we entered into this thing, we only had the best intentions --
As Brett talks, Jules takes out his gun and shoots Roger three
times in the chest, blowing him out of his chair.
Vince smiles to himself. Jules has got style.
Brett has just shit his pants. He's not crying or whimpering,
but he's so full of fear, it's as if his body is imploding.
Jules: (to Brett) Oh, I'm sorry. Did that break your concentration? I didn't mean to do that. Please, continue. I believe you were saying something about "best intentions."
Brett can't say a word.
Jules: Whatsamatter? Oh, you were through anyway. Well, let me retort. Would you describe for me what Marsellus Wallace looks like?
Brett still can't speak.
Jules snaps, savagely tipping the card table over, removing the only barrier between himself and Brett. Brett now sits in a lone chair before Jules like a political prisoner in front of an interrogator.
Jules: What country you from!
Brett: (petrified) What?
Jules: "What" ain't no country I know! Do they speak English in "What?"
Brett: (near heart attack) What?
Jules: English-motherfucker-can-you-speak- it?
Brett: Yes.
Jules: Then you understand what I'm sayin'?
Brett: Yes.
Jules: Now describe what Marsellus Wallace looks like!
Brett: (out of fear) What?
Jules takes his .45 and presses the barrel hard in Brett's cheek.
Jules: Say "What" again! C'mon, say "What" again! I dare ya, I double dare ya motherfucker, say "What" one more goddamn time!
Brett is regressing on the spot.
Jules: Now describe to me what Marsellus Wallace looks like!
Brett does his best.
Brett: Well he's ...he's...black --
Jules: -- go on!
Brett: ...and he's...he's...tall --
Jules: -- does he look like a bitch?!
Brett: (without thinking) What?
Jules' eyes go to Vincent, Vincent smirks, Jules rolls his
eyes and shoots Brett in the shoulder.
Brett screams, breaking into a shaking/trembling spasmin the
chair.
Jules: Does-he-look-like-a-bitch?!
Brett: (in agony) No.
Jules: Then why did you try to fuck 'im like a bitch?!
Brett: (in spasm) I didn't.
Now in a lower voice.
Jules: Yes ya did Brett. Ya tried ta fuck 'im. You ever read the Bible, Brett?
Brett: (in spasm) Yes.
Jules: There's a passage I got memorized, seems appropriate for this situation: Ezekiel 25:17. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you."
The two men empty their guns at the same time on the sitting
Brett.
When they are finished, the bullet-ridden carcass just sits
there for a moment, then topples over.
All is quiet.
The only sound is Marvin muttering in the corner.
Marvin: ...goddamn...goddamn...that was fucked up...goddamn, that was cold- blooded...
Vincent: (pointing to Marvin) Friend of yours?
Jules: Yeah, Marvin-Vincent-Vincent- Marvin.
Vincent: Tell 'em to shut up, he's gettin' on my nerves.
Jules: Marvin, I'd knock that shit off if I was you.
Then suddenly the bathroom door bursts open, and a Fourth Man
(as young as the rest) comes charging out, a silver Magnum in
his hand.
We dolly into a medium on him.
Fourth Man Die...die...die...die...die...die!
The Fourth Man fires six booming shots from his hand cannon in the direction of Vincent and Jules. He screams a maniacal cry of revenge until he's dry firing. Then...his face does a complete change of expression. It goes from a "Vengeance is mine" expression, to a "What the fuck" blank look.
Fourth Man I don't understand --
The Fourth Man is blown of his feet and out of frame by
bullets that tear him to shreds.
He leaves the frame empty.
Fade to black
|
Drop me a line |
The Umptieth Site |
The Script.
1. Prologue |