Back at his lair, Michael Phelps was plotting the end to man-frog-elf-dwarf kind, and how to make the perfect ham and cheese sandwich.

In the inner chambers of the zombie lair, he sat on a large throne watching his underlings train in swimming. His plan was to flood the polar ice caps using Susan’s incredible fire powers. All was falling into place.

The sandwich was the hard part. He had never made a sandwich before. He had been an Olympic champion in his life. Never had he needed to cook. But he needed something to do, being a bored and powerful conqueror.

The sandwich he knew was to have ham. He had ham. He had a mound of ham so tall, it almost stood over his throne. He also had bread. He knew he was missing something, but he just couldn’t place it.

“Rrruergg( I have news)!” Said one of his zombie slaves.
“Ugaarrara(That can wait. What else would you put on a ham and cheese sandwich?)” Said Phelps
“Rr(Cheese)?”
The Great Phelps grew so enraged, he smote him right there.