I bang you head repeatedly with a well polished shoe made in Soviet Russia. (the shoe may or may not belong to Khrushchev) You die under the supreme might of the Politburo. I claim the hill for interstellar communism. my (and the soviets') hill (and shoe)
I step onto your hill. my mere presence kills the kraken and tames the magic boulder. You get crushed by the magic boulder. My hill (and magic boulder, and a spaceplaneAddict squashed into strawberry jam.)