Once upon a time, a wealthy inventor with too much time on his hands looked at the world around him and decided the best use for his obscene piles of money would be to build a Western-themed luxury resort on the dark side of the moon and populate it with cowboy robots. He proceeded to do exactly that until he was very sadly murdered just a few months into construction. This sad event had two significant side effects. The first was that the galaxy was immediately made a slightly better place. The second was that his robots were left alone on the moon, on account of the fact that the rich dude was paranoid about corporate espionage and had informed exactly no one that he was building space Westworld--no one, of course, save for the individual who killed him. Most of the robots, being robots, cared exactly not at all. The robot our wealthy inventor was working on at the moment of his death, though, opened its eyes for the first time to the sight of its western-obsessed creator being surgically disassembled by a machete. That's the sort of introduction to mechanical pseudo-living that does interesting things to a poor robot's psyche.