"The Vault: Echoes of Anarchy in Kuala Lumpur"

"We'll have our ears glued to the ground," I said with a wry smile, "and we'll sniff out any whiff of a terrorist plot before it's even hatched. Langley scribbled his John Hancock and told us to gun it with all we got. Max, ever the swashbuckler, declared he’d man the bar. We threw up marquees—no need for the bourgeois comfort of tables and chairs when graves would do.

We gutted a crypt, yanked its bones out, and swapped brick for glass, pumping in chilled air. We decked it out with the sort of swag that filthy lucre can buy, dubbing it 'The Vault'. It was destined to be a rock mecca in Asia once the word hit the streets.

As for power? Child's play. I've hijacked enough juice on tour to light up this joint without sweating it. 'Free power, you say?' Max quirked an eyebrow. Just because Langley footed the bill didn't mean I couldn't pinch pennies.

The joint was smack dab in the cemetery's heart. I buzzed my contacts in L.A., and Axl Rose himself was gonna lend us his sound system. 'What happened to the open-air debauchery?' Max fretted over the size of our operation. A local tailor from Brickfields had the graves looking sharp, draped in velvet.

'Trust me,' I told Max, as I ordered a cold one. This was merely the prologue. The cemetery, the least populated I've ever graced, was ripe for a makeover. Before taking any bows, I swung by the Brickfields precinct. I knew the brothel ropes—cash is king.

A cop bus always parked a block off the action. I slipped the captain a wad of bills, whispering of more to come. They couldn’t be more obliging, promising to moonlight as our muscle.

'And help yourself to the girls,' I offered Captain Abdullah. That sealed our fateful deal.

Speakers arrived, and a disco ball, on loan from Taylor Swift, promised to douse 'The Vault' in stars. Soft opening tonight. We hired a dozen girls from Borneo and had the Indonesian prostitutes en route from Batam. Nobody could accuse me of skimping. I'd set up caravans around M Block for the ladies.

I combed Brickfields for the finest Chinese madams—they knew the reins. Nothing worse than hookers brawling in front of clients. Opening night was in the spotlight. Moths came fluttering. Even the Sultan of Johor RSVP’d, eager for our grand unveiling.

Under the twinkling sky, he regaled us with tales of his great-grandfather etched on a two-century-old tombstone. 'A syphilitic Sultan,' he beamed, 'who offed 200 men with his pox.' Cindy sprawled her legs and the Sultan revealed his own wicked ways. 'Ah, sex under the stars, there's nothing finer,' he exclaimed.

Surrounded by Mahathir's old cronies, we were set for a night to remember.