Dreams of waking encased in a white room. A fragile body immersed in a nexus of nightmarish machines. The pale faced doctors prodding him gently, receiving him with paler diagnosis. As always the regurgitating comment, "wellcum ta tha tenty tird centery, tee ate nine seven". After they had left, the constant hum of the machinery served as company, converging into a background mummer. Shielded within audio tranquility, he could pick out the steady rhythm of his own heart beat. Within that he found the reassurance of life, tainted by the numbers 3, 8, 9 and 7.
Blackness engulfed him, this time quite unlike death. The vivid pain had been exchanged for a gentle enticement towards sleep.
Awake. Heart still beating at a steady pace. The man lay soundly across a dirty ratty couch, within a dimly lit office. A small booted foot swung out, jolting the man to his senses. "What?", the words fell out, unheeded by the advancing midget.
"Oy culd simfasize wif ow confused ya are tee ate nine seven, boight oy don't. As fur ass ya cunsurned, oy jist wont ya out of me face. Soy git on ya feat n git ta wok detale."
"Work? Detail?" The man's face bridged in disappointment.
"Wot ya easpec? Ya gotta pea for tat new art, eswell ass all that cryodrek. Sheet, like tat don't cum cheap. Now git up!"
The man fought his way to his feet. "But I'm rich. I've got loads of cash. I'm not sure how much, but some of my investments must have paid off."
The mutants little piggy eyes stared the man up and down. "Nut any more ya nut. Yas nobody tee ate nine seven. Tee only leagacy you ever left us is tis stinky planit. Now it's ya job ta clean it up, soy gitya ass inta line, now!"
A dark solitary man meandered sullenly, off to work.