It was a putrid ball of flesh and bones named Princess Daffodil. She liked to frolic in the abandoned, bloodstained slaughterhouse which, incidentally, had never been used since the night of the great conflagration, that had killed all of squirming vat meat Tenders. They were not used to being dipped in Kerosene and sawdust. One day, Princess What's-Her-Name thought, "ACK! Amnesia!" She couldn't remember where she'd put her name tag, let alone her rusty machete of vibrating carnal bliss. Meanwhile back at the cheese parlour, Kurds weighed in scaring the spiders from their tuffets.
