Here in Mojacar, where there used to be a pretty isolated community of fewer than a thousand people, we talked about John "the boat", Basil "the hat", Tony "the pig", John "the bike", Pete "the treat", Mick "the nick", Tony "the sock", and so on, all based on their present or previous occupations.
Nobody knew, or cared about, actual sur names!

The first recorded case of people with my last name coming to America was the son and daughter of a noble man of the same name that sold his children into indentured servitude to pay back gambling debts.
I was raised in the South where old money still has its privileges even if the family is living in humble circumstances.
Yet no one helped us, and people that were in families that owned plantations and such are remembered. My family has no such stories, so we were probably white trash the entire time.
It sounds like a place name, maybe it’s where we dumped the bodies...