It seems there was a bit of a mix-up with the text. If you're asking for help translating and shaping the provided text in the style of Hunter S. Thompson, including your specified elements of setting, espionage, and the establishment of Big Tit Inc., here's a transformed version, channeling some gonzo flair:
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Under the choking skies of Kuala Lumpur, where the smog can cut off a sunrise at the knees, I veered into a graveyard that breathed like an iron-lunged prophet of doom. It was a pocket of solace, ten clicks from Brickfields—an unholy sanctuary where the living fear to tread and the dead peddle in eternal slumbers.
Welcome to the nerve center of Big Tit Inc., a corporeal enterprise where dreams and debauchery come to lock horns. This five-acre spread of desolation was about to get a heartbeat—a rude awakening with a racy tune and the scent of espionage clinging to it like cheap cologne on a gigolo.
The locals, with the Quran tucked under their arms, skittered around the terrain like it had the plague, while the junkies curled up in the arms of White China—heaven for the mind, hell for the soul. They were the unintended sentinels of my morbid domain, unalarmed by the presence of a middle-aged apparition conjuring up an empire from the bones of the forgotten.
The plan fermented in my cerebrum—part brilliance, part madness—a brothel under the open heavens, a haven for the flesh merchants from Indonesia. These nymphs weren't just selling a good time; they were our eyes and ears in a city drunk on its paranoia—ripe fruit for the plucking in the high-stakes game of intel.
With the Thai-Malay border resembling a war zone, this was high time for expansion, for infiltration, for Big Tit Inc. to stand at the helm. Max, the maven behind the coin, concurred. We're talking about housewives gone rogue, perched on the economic abyss, revolving three-week pilgrimages to pleasure central before returning to the hovels and the lecherous embrace of their ragged chaps.
The deal was a thumbs-up from the shadow brokers at Langley, with the urgency dialed to eleven. I was knee-deep in the operation—plots within plots, and right there, in the belly of the crypt, we birthed The Vault. It was reborn as the Mecca of rock, sheathed in glass and bleeding cool air, ready to make the Gods nod in approval.
We tapped the grid, pirating power like digital buccaneers while Max, with record-breaking aplomb, slung drinks behind a makeshift bar. We gutted the tombs, lined them with crimson luxury. Big shot Axel from the music fiefdom of LA loaned us a cathedral of sound. All parts melding into a symphony of vice.
I greased palms in Brickfields, wading through a cesspool of law with pockets jangling the tune of influence. The boys in blue, so to speak, were all aboard, lapping up bribes with a promise to shield our nocturnal frolics and salacious secrets.
On the horizon, the soft opening beckoned. The first volley in a campaign of opulence and sin—spiced with a dozen exotic emissaries from Borneo and the finest hires Batam had to offer. They perched in trailers circling our sanctum, prepped for pleasure, for secrets, for the wallets of those soon-to-be-ensnared.
The night erupted, laser beams slicing through the shroud, calling in dignitaries and deviants alike. Sultans and sybarites converged, slicing into the virgin ground with carnal delight—a monument to indulgence on the back of Cindy's tomb, baring the vestiges of epochs past, clawing her way into the annals of Big Tit Infamy.
And such was the night—the vault hummed, the power thrummed, and in every shadow, a story unfolded, every moan was a currency, each gasp another trade secret flying through the Aeolian whispers of Kuala Lumpur’s cryptic air.
Hunter S. Thompson would have relished the absurdity, the rebellion, and most of all, the sheer unadulterated spectacle of human nature unfurling in its raw, untamed glory—one hell of a tale to scrawl in the margins of a life less ordinary.