Pulp Fiction

INT. TAXI (PARKED / RAINING) – NIGHT

Butch, soaking wet, naked except for trunks, shoes and gloves, HOPS in the backseat, SLAMMING the door.

Esmarelda, staring straight ahead, talks to Butch through the rearview mirror:

ESMARELDA

(Spanish accent)

Are you the man I was supposed to pick up?

BUTCH

If you're the cab I called, I'm the guy you're supposed to pick up.

ESMARELDA

Where to?

BUTCH

Outta here.

The ignition key is TWISTED. The engine ROARS to life.

The meter is FLIPPED on.

Esmarelda's bare foot STOMPS on the gas pedal.

EXT. BOXING AUDITORIUM (RAINING) – NIGHT

The cab WHIPS out of the alley, FISH-TAILING on the wet pavement in front of the auditorium at a rapid pace.

INT. WILLIS LOCKER ROOM (AUDITORIUM) – NIGHT

Locker room door opens, Enghlish Dave fights his way through the pandemonium which is going on outside in the hall, shutting the door on the madness. Once inside, English Dave takes time to adjust his suit and tie. Mia is standing by the door. She sees Vincent with English Dave.

VINCENT

Mia. How you doin'?

MIA

Great. I never thanked you for the dinner.

In the room, black boxer FLOYD RAY WILLIS lies on a table – dead. His face looks like he went dunking for bees. His TRAINER is on his knees, head on Floyd's chest, crying over the body.

The huge figure that is Marsellus Wallace stands at the table, hand on the Trainer's shoulder, lending emotional support. We still do not see Marsellus clearly, only that he is big.

Mia sits in a chair at the far end of the room.

Marsellus looks up, sees English Dave and walks over to him.

MARSELLUS (O.S.)

What'cha got?

ENGLISH DAVE

He booked.

MARSELLUS (O.S.)

I'm prepared to scour the earth for this motherfucker. If Butch goes to Indo China, I want a nigger hidin' in a bowl of rice, ready to pop a cap in his ass.

ENGLISH DAVE

I'll take care of it.

INT. CAB (MOVING / RAINING) – NIGHT

Butch gets one of his boxing gloves off.

Esmeralda watches in the rearview mirror.

He tries to roll down one of the backseat windows, but can't find the roll bar.

BUTCH

Hey, how do I open the window back here?

ESMARELDA

I have to do it.

She presses a button and the back window moves down. Butch tosses his boxing glove out the window, then starts untying the other one.

Esmeralda can't keep quiet anymore.

ESMARELDA

Hey, mister?

BUTCH

(still working on the glove)

What?

ESMARELDA

You were in that fight? The fight on the radio – you're the fighter?

As he tosses his other glove out the window.

BUTCH

Whatever gave you that idea?

ESMARELDA

No c'mon, you're him, I know you're him, tell me you're him.

BUTCH

(drying himself with a gym towel)

I'm him.

ESMARELDA

You killed the other boxing man.

BUTCH

He's dead?

ESMARELDA

The radio said he was dead.

He finished wiping himself down.

BUTCH

(to himself)

Sorry 'bout that, Floyd.

He tosses the towel out the window.

Silence, as Butch digs in his bag for a T-shirt.

ESMARELDA

What does it feel like?

BUTCH

(finds his shirt)

What does what feel like?

ESMARELDA

Killing a man. Beating another man to death with your bare hands.

Butch pulls on his tee-shirt.

BUTCH

Are you some kinda weirdo?

ESMARELDA

No, it's a subject I have much interest in. You are the first person I ever met who has killed somebody. So, what was it like to kill a man?

BUTCH

Tell ya what, you give me one of them cigarettes, I'll give you an answer.

Esmarelda bounces in her seat with excitement.

ESMARELDA

Deal!

Butch leans forward. Esmarelda, keeping her eyes on the road, passes a cigarette back to him. He takes it. Then, still not looking behind her, she brings up her hand, a lit match in it. Butch lights his smoke, then blows out the match.

He takes a long drag.

BUTCH

So...

He looks at her license

BUTCH

... Esmarelda Villalobos – is that Mexican?

ESMARELDA

The name is Spanish, but I'm Columbian.

BUTCH

It's a very pretty name.

ESMARELDA

It mean "Esmarelda of the wolves."

BUTCH

That's one hell of a name you got there, sister.

ESMARELDA

Thank you. And what is your name?

BUTCH

Butch.

ESMARELDA

Butch. What does it mean?

BUTCH

I'm an American, our names don't mean shit. Anyway, moving right along, what is it you wanna know, Esmarelda?

ESMARELDA

I want to know what it feels like to kill a man –

BUTCH

– I couldn't tell ya. I didn't know he was dead 'til you told me he was dead. Now I know he's dead, do you wanna know how I feel about it?

Esmarelda nods her head: "yes."

BUTCH

I don't feel the least little bit bad.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH (RAINING) – NIGHT

We DOLLY around a phone booth as Butch talks inside.

BUTCH

(into phone)

What's I tell ya, soon as the word got out a fix was in, the odds would be outta control. Hey, if he was a better fighter he's be alive. If he never laced up his gloves in the first place, which he never shoulda done, he'd be alive. Enough about the poor unfortunate Mr. Floyd, let's talk about the rich and prosperous Mr. Butch. How many bookies you spread it around with?

(pause)

Eight? How long to collect?

(pause)

So by tomorrow evening, you'll have it all?

(pause)

Good news Scotty, real good news – I understand a few stragglers aside. Me an' Fabienne're gonna leave in the morning. It should take us a couple days to get into Knoxville. Next time we see each other, it'll be on Tennessee time.

Butch hangs up the phone. He looks at the cab waiting to take him wherever he wants to go.

BUTCH

(to himself in French with English subtitles)

Fabienne my love, our adventure begins.

CUT TO:

EXT. MOTEL (STOPPED / RAINING) – NIGHT

Esmeralda's taxi pulled into the motel parking lot. The rain has stopped, but the night is still soaked. Butch gets out, now fully dressed in tee-shirt, jeans and high school athletic jacket. He leans in the driver's side window.

ESMARELDA

Forty-five sixty.

Handing her the money.

BUTCH

Merci beaucoup. And here's a little something for the effort.

Butch holds up a hundred dollar bill.

Esmarelda's eyes light up. She goes to take it. Butch holds it out of reach.

BUTCH

Now if anybody should ask you about who your fare was tonight, what're you gonna tell 'em?

ESMARELDA

The truth. Three well-dressed, slightly toasted, Mexicans.

He gives her the bill.

BUTCH

Bon soir, Esmarelda.

ESMARELDA

(in Spanish)

Sleep well, Butch.

He tweaks her nose, she smiles, and he turns and walks away. She drives off.

INT. MOTEL (ROOM SIX) – NIGHT

Butch enters and turns on the light.

Lying curled up on the bed, fully dressed, with her back to us is Butch's French girlfriend, FABIENNE.

FABIENNE

Keep the light off.

Butch flicks the switch back, making the room dark again.

BUTCH

Is that better, sugar pop?

FABIENNE

Oui. Hard day at the office?

BUTCH

Pretty hard. I got into a fight.

FABIENNE

Poor baby. Can we make spoons?

Butch climbs into bed, spooning Fabienne from behind.

When Butch and Fabienne speak to each other, they speak in baby-talk.

FABIENNE

I was looking at myself in the mirror.

BUTCH

Uh-huh?

FABIENNE

I wish I had a pot.

BUTCH

You were lookin' in the mirror and you wish you had some pot?

FABIENNE

A pot. A pot belly. Pot bellies are sexy.

BUTCH

Well you should be happy, 'cause you do.

FABIENNE

Shut up, Fatso! I don't have a pot! I have a bit of a tummy, like Madonna when she did "Lucky Star," it's not the same thing.

BUTCH

I didn't realize there was a difference between a tummy and a pot belly.

FABIENNE

The difference is huge.

BUTCH

You want me to have a pot?

FABIENNE

No. Pot bellies make a man look either oafish, or like a gorilla. But on a woman, a pot belly is very sexy. The rest of you is normal. Normal face, normal legs, normal hips, normal ass, but with a big, perfectly round pot belly. If I had one, I'd wear a tee-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate it.

BUTCH

You think guys would find that attractive?

FABIENNE

I don't give a damn what men find attractive. It's unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same.

BUTCH

If I had a pot belly, I'd punch you in it.

FABIENNE

You'd punch me in my belly?

BUTCH

Right in the belly.

FABIENNE

I'd smother you. I'd drop it on your right on your face 'til you couldn't breathe.

BUTCH

You'd do that to me?

FABIENNE

Yes!

BUTCH

Did you get everything, sugar pop?

FABIENNE

Yes, I did.

BUTCH

Good job.

FABIENNE

Did everything go as planned?

BUTCH

You didn't listen to the radio?

FABIENNE

I never listen to your fights. Were you the winner?

BUTCH

I won alright.

FABIENNE

Are you still retiring?

BUTCH

Sure am.

FABIENNE

What about the man you fought?