It's been a week so the hill is 1337's.

You stole my hill, the hill is mine.

I own the hill because there is no ParkerFarker… only ZUUUUULL

Hey, the last time I came here the hill was mine… so, I´ll take it again…

Pato´s hill!!!

same for me.

hill's mine.

:D

I use a gopher, the hill is mine!

I use a golfer… and he uses a… 20-iron and… shoots you off the hill.

Home run.

Hill is mine.

FUKIN HILL IS FUKIN MINE.


:)

As I craw up the hill, once my property, I think back on the way things used to be around here. The fight for the hill was once fierce, people used new, innovative ways to kill the Hills previous owner. All just for a shot at glory, a shot at owning the mighties part of earth:
The Hill.
I remember people using zombies, asking great earth heroes, like Chuck or Bruce.
I remember days in wich it was all out war, the hill only being owned by those brave men and women with enough creativity. And even then only for hours, sometimes even minutes.
I remember people being impaled by trees, still working to climb the hill, still clinging to their hopes. I remember Hadoukens, Falcon Punches and Mary Poppins.
I remember everything that went on here, every detail, every scent, every feeling, every word. I remember this Hill before it was forgotten. Before Mafia, Dungeons And Ducks took over.
I remember it all, and as I plant the Kroatz flag on top of the hill once more I vow to never let this hill be forgotten!

The Hill is mine.

At last I had found the fabeled hill. My long search was over, but I saw a obstacle in my way. A man who had written something on a piece of paper, and went to sit on the other side of the hill. I read the poem, seeing he mourned how the creativness had slowly bled out. And thus I decided to make his death a grand one. I took out my new gun, which I “borrowed” from Marcus, and started it up. He turned around just in time to see the chainsaw of the barrel come smashing through his head. As his body was being torn in half, I fired the gun, on auto. Bullets went flying through the air, I heaved the gun in the direction of the flag. The fabric tore, the pole splintered, and Kroatz was dead. As I surveyed the carnage, I saw others observed my slaughter, DrunkDuckers readying weapons and punch-lines of all sorts to reclaim the hill. And here I stand, my flag impaled through the still twitching corpse of Kroatz, waiting.

The hill is mine.