Mrs. Flitch stared down over her ample front at the neighbors' eight-year-old, who was acting very strangely.  "Bobby, what's wrong?"

"Not Bobby," he said in a robotic voice.  "Golfrigitherrask of Magric."   He aimed what looked like a purple squirt gun at her.  "Inhabit this form to conquer planet.  Start with you."

"Now Bobby, where did you get that thing?"

Bobby frowned mightily, after pressing a red sliver on the squirt gun had no effect.

"Now Bobby, who put you up to this silliness?"  Mrs. Flitch continued. "Was it that nasty Coolidge boy?  He's always reading those silly science fiction books . . ."

Bobby fiddled with a blue knob on the squirt gun's side, then aimed it, glaring with a fierce triumph Mrs. Flitch didn't like.  "Not Coolidge. Vastrogorgnic Emperor."

And as Bobby emphatically thumbed the red sliver, just before she burst into disconnected molecules, Mrs. Fitch realized he was telling the truth.