Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version II

Guy was not a short man by any means; he was just under six feet tall. However, whenever he stood next to someone who was three or more inches taller than him he felt diminutive. Like most men he was a man of two minds. One side of him thought he was supremely excellent, a proud man worthy of the glory he sought. The other thought himself a pathetic wretch of a fool with no right to fame, power or glory.
Perhaps this is why a British kid who grew up in the suburbs and had no history of outer conflict would suddenly in his mid-twenties don a black leather jacket, black jeans, black shoes and a Union Jack plastered T-shirt, forgoing all other clothing. In addition he bleached his hair blond and tried to take up smoking. He quickly abandoned the smoking after the first few cigarettes made him cough terribly, besides, he thought, cancer wouldn’t be too glorious, would it? Now, as long as he kept his little smoking mishap to himself, everyone who met him would remember him respectfully… if not fondly.
Guy’s belief that he was oh-so-worthy contrasted interestingly with his hitherto failure to achieve anything of great significance. Guy was of a mind to change this, and his first stop in doing so had been in a posh Victorian home just outside of London: the home of one Thaddeus Crutchley. Mr. Crutchley, a tall gray-haired former professor of history at Oxford University with bony cheeks, was the antithesis of Guy in every conceivable way. As often as Guy wore his jacket, jeans, shoes and Union Jack tee, Professor Emeritus Crutchley wore tweed. He also wore impeccably polished brown leather shoes and small rectangular spectacles which were wont to slide down his thin crooked nose. Guy would have called him a “sodding nancy” upon first meeting him if he himself had not been one. The truth was that despite their appearances Guy was the coward and Thaddeus was only what could be described as mercenary; a ruthless cutthroat. The two had nevertheless become close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world. This was, ironically, what they were trying to do.
“I believe you are ready and have been for some time,” Thaddeus had told Guy several months ago in the drawing room of his Victorian home.
Guy set down his near-empty wine glass which he had been twirling carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. “Ready for what?” he asked.
“When I first swore you into the organization,” Thaddeus ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that you are a truth-seeker as much as a glory-seeker and thus are tremendously frustrated by conspiracies.”
Guy sat upright, “Well, yeah,” he protested.
“I want you to infiltrate the Illuminati,” Thaddeus said abruptly.
“You what?”
“You shall begin tomorrow.”
“Riiight,” said Guy, standing up. “I’ll just waltz over to Parliament and say ‘Mr. Prime Minister, sir, I’d like to join you and your conspiratorial backers in a game of poker, nineish?’ and then we’ll have a right merry time discussing politics over tea and crumpets.”
Thaddeus continued to ignore him, saying, “According to my informants, a high-ranking member of the Illuminati is currently stationed at the