A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...
It was late. They were in a crappy bar on some backwater planet. The locals were sentient fungi. Lockdown had forked out the cash to buy some decent (and therefore overpriced) high grade, while Swindle peered warily at the canister of raw jet fuel that he'd ordered. The organic patrons of the bar gave them both a wide berth, as Swindle's drink was giving off fumes.
"Hey Swindle," Lockdown said. "I'll give you 300 credits if you have sex with me."
Swindle gave him a dark look. "I'm a businessman, nota whore."
Lockdown stared at Swindle for five seconds, then laughed uproariously. "You. Not a whore. Haha. That's a good one."
Swindle narrowed his eyes.
"What about 600 credits?" Lockdown offered.
"3000," Swindle snapped.
"What? I don't like you that much." Lockdown shrugged at the other mech. "I'll give you 2800 credits if you let me cut you up during sex."
Swindle backed away slightly.
Lockdown feigned umbrage. "Swindle, I'm joking."
Swindle didn't look entirely convinced.
Still...
"3000 credits, and I'll throw in a free flechette gun," Swindle said. "You can load it with shards of depleted uranium, which makes it cheap to arm. I've got one, it's really useful against unarmored targets."
Lockdown shrugged. "I've got four of those already. Slag it, you're too expensive. I can go jerk off for free. Or find a hooker who doesn't have a weird shaped head."
Swindle squinted at him. "Yeah? Then it's probably for the best. If I was ever going to have sex with you, I'd need to install some military-grade antivirus software first."
Lockdown finished off his high grade, then stood up. He patted Swindle on the shoulder, and wandered off to find a takeaway joint that catered to 20 ft tall sentient machines.
Swindle stayed put, and scowled at nothing in particular. "...Nothing wrong with the shape of my head," he told the bartender, a bit too loudly.