Basic Banach Space Theory

Stepping off of the plane, and into the “tube of welcome” as Nicholas Pfefferman shouldered a backpack boldly emblazoned with the logo, a white fish, and the initials of the community college where he was an adjunct. CCCSC had a proud reputation of paying low wages, but not demanding much of their professors,

So when decided to take a trip to Vegas, no one was concerned, and everyone just assumed that he would be here doing “practical” research on Probability and maybe winning some money.

Well, his dolt colleagues were right about half of that. Had they paid much attention, they’d know he was a full-time, IN-DE-PEN-DANT wrestler as well.

He was dressed for the height of summer, a Hawaiian shirt with a base of the most frighteningly mauve to ever mauve and a variety of fish, he wasn’t sure what they were, he wasn’t a marine biologist, after all, Flip flops of the same overwhelming, alarming, and possible illegal color.

He also wasn’t a weatherman in khaki shorts just slightly south of being short enough to earn a second look. The fact that Vegas was experiencing temperatures that were…

… shrinkage inducing was mostly lost on Pfefferman. Who strode through the airport like it was the nineteen-eighties, he was in some kind of wrestling alliance, and was their champion.

To be clear, he isn’t, it isn’t and he definitely would never be considered for such a position.

So it was with the braggadocio of someone who earned his Masters in Mathematics at a college with the word “Reserve” in the school name, Pfefferman strode down the terminal, oblivious to both god and men that he was not dressed appropriately for the season, and had no rights to be striding directly towards the PRIME Vehicle idling in the loading and unloading zone.

Strutting up with Bockwinkelian intention, the driver, who was reading the Las Vegas Review-Journal sports page and muttering either about hockey or football looked up.

“Scram Pointdexter.”

Returning to his reading. Nicholas Pfefferman continued standing there, somewhat aghast, and now slightly chillier. He looked around likely musing internally that he wasn’t entirely one-hundred percent certain about his clothing choices, but he also seemingly didn’t care. The driver who was in the type of black suits and ray bans customary of drivers of important people looked over his paper again.

This time his face descended into a frown.

“Okay, last warning, get out of here bub.”

He returned to reading.

“Well you see, I am Nicholas Pfefferman, and I work for PRIME wrestling…”

The driver’s eye illuminated behind his glass momentarily.

“Listen Peppercorn, I am here.”

He points pointedly at the airport.

“To drive important people, wrestlers, office staff, real corner office types to the MGM Grand for important work, Cleaning and support staff are supposed to take the tram or bus, or whatever.”

Nicholas Pfefferman’s face was the kind of shade of pink that usually happens after mild sun exposure, or after using Bobby Dean’s suntan lotion(It’s MAYO!).

“It’s not Peppercorn, It’s FEFF-ER-MAN!”

His voice was now working towards the kind of crescendo that is usually preceded by a large intake of black market pre-workout.

Quietly folding his paper under his arm, the much, much.

It must be said, the Much larger driver looked down as Pfefferman.

“Peppercorn, Pffercorn, WHAT. EVER. I’d check that tone if I were you, and I wanted to make it to your first janitorial shift at MGM Grand. And I wanted to collect a paycheck that didn’t go to reset your jaw.”

Pfefferman fumed furiously for about a minute, while the driver quietly unfolded his paper, returned to reading and grousing about the Raiders playoff chances.

They were zero.

And this was how Nicholas Pfefferman, once again found himself on a crowded public mode of transportation, stuffed between an old man reeking of unfiltered cigarettes looking at a program for the ponies, and a gentleman in his middle twenties considering the heavy ramifications of what he had recently shoveled out of his nose.

Across from him as the bus bounced over what passes for pavement in the year of our lord twenty-twenty-two, was one of those wise men. You know the type, wearing a shirt that proudly proclaimed “you don’t scare me, I have two daughters”. Goatee, so bald he could be a pool ball and riding the bus because of his last DUI.

“Hey.”

Pfefferman was deep in his thoughts.

“Hey, man.”

He tapped Pfefferman’s bare knee. Pfefferman snapped out of his reverie. Annoyed.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“You know it’s winter right buddy?”

Pfefferman’s eyes narrowed to Slytherinesque slits. The bald man sat back against the bench crossing his arms in self-satisfaction. A broad smile formed across his face. Pfefferman considered winning this argument later in the shower and furrowed his brow. The rest of the bus ride was the expected tedium of small things that make public transportation in the United States somewhere between nightmarish and/or inconvenient.

The arguments about refusing to pay the fare.

The random guy who refused to pull his pants up.

The kid with a skateboard chose to pull the stop cord repeatedly, making the driver, and every other human being on the bus late for whatever they had already left their house hours early for.

And finally.

Nicholas Pfefferman stepped off of the bus in front of the MGM Grand. Impressive even in daylight. Pfefferman shouldered his backpack and his retrieved duffle bag, looking at a cowboy hat and length of wheat sticking out from his mouth from being a dumbass hayseed.

The flow of a sidewalk in Vegas even in Winter has no space for gawkers or dawdlers, except at designated gawking spots, and Nicholas Pfefferman was soon the recipient of many shoulders, and even more profanity, helpfully pointing out that he could both “Get the fuck out of the way” and that he was a “fucking idiot.”

He ignored it all and wondered which of the three wings he would be getting to stay at. He ambled much in the same yokel fashion, legs turning pink from Cold towards the entrance, where signage was indicating PRIME was holding promotional events for the upcoming Almasy Invitational Tournament.

The room was properly decked out for the magnitude of the event, and Nicholas Pfefferman leaned against the door frame momentarily, taking in all of the wrestling press there, the proud lectern, the works…

“Excuse me.”

The voice came from behind him. He turned to see another nameless PRIME security goon. Who again, seems to be double in height and shoulder width of Nicholas Pfefferman, Pfefferman thinks they must be getting a group rate on these guys.

“This media session isn’t open to the public.”

Hands firmly planted on shoulders.

“Well, hold on just a second chief.”

The slow removal as he is walked down the hallway. The mostly futile effort to slow the dragging away. Against a man who is far stronger and belabored with his bags and other ephemeral awkwardness.

“I am IN the Almasy Invitational!”

He tried to roar over the din. Instead, it came out as a Heenanesque shriek. The guard stopped his gentle, but firm and persistent shoving.

“Oh?”

“Yes. YES. I am Nicholas Pfefferman. Very Good at wrestling!”

“I see.”

The guard looked up and down at Nicholas Pfefferman, openly appraising him.

“I was told by the front office to arrive early for promotional activities, photos, and the like. HOWEVER, the car I was told that would shuttle me, opted to inform me. ME! THAT THE RING CREW TAKES PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION TO THE VENUE!!!”

The security guard laughed heartily.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. You one of the local boys filling out the tournament to make sure we got enough number or something?”

Nicholas Pfefferman had returned to his sunburn coloring in the face.

“I am.

A. 

Signed.

Wrestler.

With.

PRIME! YOU GREAT BABOON!”

The color continued to rise in Pfeffermans face, his buzzed head starting to display the first rivulets of sweat were forming at the crown of his head.

“I AM FACING LARRY TRACT IN THE FIRST ROUND. I AM NOT.

LOCAL. ENHANCEMENT. TALENT. 

YOU WOULDN’T KNOW WHAT A REAL NUMBER WAS IF IT JUMPED UP AND BIT YOU IN YOUR SINGLE-DIGIT IQ ASS.

IT IS MY GREAT HOPE. ”

Sweat is beginning to bead across Pfefferman’s forehead as he drops his bags and begins to jab an accusatory finger into the chest of the larger man. Pfeffermans voice begins to descend back towards appropriate for conversation, behind them, and unknown to Pfefferman, several wrestling journalists have started to come out into the hallway, cameras at the ready to behold the spectacle of a man in shorts, flip flops, and a Hawaiian shirt, clearly NOT having a good time accosting PRIME security.

“That Larry Tract has the mental wherewithal, to do the mental gymnastics required to look at the roster page and figure out that his opponent works in PRIME.”

While his face has become the shade of purple that would concern a doctor, crown sweat slowly dribbles down his face. He stops shoving his finger into the security guard’s chest and starts to adjust the lapels on his suit, straightening his tie which he had knocked out of the place.

“BECAUSE YOU AND THE REST OF PRIME SECURITY CAN’T SEEM TO FIGURE IT OUT!”

Pfefferman unobtrusively slams a flip-flopped foot into the security guard’s shin, who seems surprised as he goes down to one knee. Finding himself being writhed about suddenly in a crossface chicken wing.

“I AM  MISTER NICHOLAS PFEFFERMAN, YOU GREAT IDIOT! I WORK IN PRIME, I WILL NOT BE DISRESPECTED! I DID NOT GO TO [redacted]  MASTER IN MATHEMATICS, WORK MY ASS OFF IN WRESTLING SCHOOL SO THAT A COUPLE OF RENT-A-COP KNOCK-OFFS COULD MAKE ME LATE FOR MY PRESS CONFERENCE ON THE PRECIPE OF THE BIGGEST DAY OF MY CAREER!”

Camera flashbulbs were exploding as Casino Security and PRIME Security rushed to remove Nicholas Pfefferman. Who kept screaming he was Mr. Pfefferman and frothing at the mouth to anyone and no one. As he and his gear was hauled away, the scratching of hurried scribbling describing the scene started happening, with the wrestling press now following the scene.
…

We had seen the beginning of Nicholas Pfefferman’s trip through PRIME…

..But would we see the end of it, one had to wonder. What type of man arrives dressed like a school teacher lost on vacation, only to put a painful maneuver in public and broad daylight no less, on a valued member of the PRIME security staff, tasked with keeping these types of issues at bay?

….

Is Nicholas Pfefferman a danger to PRIME? While he may have been ranting and raving about Mathematics and Scientific wrestling, one has to wonder, though not aloud, and certainly within earshot of the Almasy Invitational entrant if he is cut out to be in the big leagues? A quick recap of his independent career shows match after match of solid wrestling, a good amateur background, and a temper that seems to be unleashed at random against both friend and foe…