BAF Assets 4, LLC v. Josh Madson, Samantha Sausseer, and All Occupants

Let’s be real: people stop paying rent all the time. But what makes this case a certified banger is that two roommates in Edmond, Oklahoma, are currently sitting in a house they haven’t paid for in months—$2,075 in back rent, plus fees—while their landlord tries to legally strong-arm them into either paying up or packing their stuff, and so far, they’re just… not doing either. No dramatic hostage situation, no barricaded doors, just the quiet, stubborn hum of adults refusing to acknowledge capitalism. It’s less Breaking Bad, more Breaking Lease—and honestly, we’re here for it.

Meet Josh Madson and Samantha Sausseer, the dynamic duo of delinquency, currently cohabitating in a single-family home at 2809 NW 158th Street like it’s their own personal Airbnb they never checked out of. On the other side of this domestic drama? BAF Assets 4, LLC—a delightfully vague corporate entity that sounds like a side hustle for a tax-averse real estate bro, but in reality, is just another property management company trying to collect what it’s owed. Represented by Brigid F. Kennedy, a lawyer whose name sounds like she should be solving cold cases on a network drama, the LLC isn’t asking for much: just the money, the keys, and maybe a little respect.

So how did we get here? Picture this: early 2026, the air crisp with winter and financial irresponsibility. Josh and Samantha, presumably normal-enough adults with jobs and credit scores (or at least they used to), have been renting this place under a lease agreement that, like most leases, probably says things like “thou shalt pay rent” and “thou shalt not turn the living room into a mushroom farm.” But somewhere between signing on the dotted line and February 13th, things went off the rails. The exact reason for the non-payment isn’t spelled out in the filing—no sob stories about job loss, medical emergencies, or sudden devotion to a cashless lifestyle—but the numbers don’t lie: $2,075 in unpaid rent, plus an extra $146 in “unpaid fees” (which, let’s be honest, probably started as a late charge and snowballed like a credit card bill after a divorce). That’s over two grand they owe, and they’ve chosen… not to pay it.

Now, landlords aren’t charities—well, not successful ones, anyway—so BAF Assets didn’t just sit around waiting for a Venmo apology. On February 13th, 2026, they sent Josh and Samantha a formal notice via certified mail, after posting it on the property (a legal two-step that satisfies Oklahoma’s eviction protocol, because apparently you can’t just yell “GET OUT!” from your car). The message was simple: pay up, fix the problem, or leave. And the tenants? Radio silence. No payment. No move-out date. No explanation. Just… continued occupancy. Like they’re hosting a never-ending house party and forgot to invite the host.

Which brings us to the courthouse. The legal claim here is as straightforward as eviction gets: BAF Assets wants the court to say, “Yes, these people owe money and are violating the lease by not paying it, so please make them leave.” In legalese, this is called a “forcible entry and detainer” action—basically the legal equivalent of “you’re trespassing in your own apartment now.” The relief sought? Injunctive relief, which means the landlord isn’t primarily suing for a pile of cash (though they’d take it). What they really want is a judge to issue an order saying Josh and Samantha have to vacate the premises. It’s not about the money anymore—it’s about control. It’s about principle. It’s about not letting two people live rent-free in your investment property while you cover the property taxes, insurance, and probably the water bill for that suspiciously long-running shower.

Now, $2,075 might not sound like Scrooge McDuck levels of cash, but let’s put it in perspective. That’s six months of Netflix, two new iPhones, or one really awkward therapist copay after you admit you’ve been living in a house you haven’t paid for since January. For a landlord, that’s a chunk of change—especially when you factor in legal fees, lost rental income, and the emotional toll of dealing with deadbeat tenants. For the tenants? Well, if they’re choosing to fight this instead of just paying up and moving on, maybe they think they’ve got a defense. Maybe they believe the landlord didn’t follow procedure. Maybe they’re waiting for a spiritual sign. Or maybe—just maybe—they’re broke and hoping the system moves slowly enough that winter ends before the sheriff shows up.

But here’s the kicker: the filing doesn’t say why they stopped paying. No counterclaims. No mention of broken heaters, moldy showers, or a landlord who turned the backyard into a goat sanctuary without telling them. Nothing. Just… non-payment. Which makes this less David vs. Goliath and more Roommates vs. Reality. Because in the grand tradition of tenant defenses, “we just didn’t feel like it” doesn’t hold up in court. Neither does “we were busy” or “we thought it would auto-pay.” And unless Josh and Samantha are sitting on a secret recording of the landlord promising to forgive rent in exchange for interior design services (which, honestly, would be an upgrade), they’re on the losing side of both the law and basic adulting.

So what’s our take? Look, we’ve all been late on a bill. We’ve all stared at a bank account balance and made choices. But this isn’t a $15 overdraft fee—it’s two months of rent, plus penalties, plus a full-on eviction filing. The most absurd part isn’t even the amount; it’s the silence. No drama, no excuse, no attempt to negotiate. Just… ghosting their landlord like it’s a bad Tinder date. And while we low-key admire the audacity—there’s something almost poetic about treating a lease like a library book you never return—the truth is, this isn’t a battle they can win. The law is clear: no pay, no stay. And unless they’ve got a surprise witness (a roommate? a pet? a very persuasive TikTok?), the only thing coming their way is a court order and a moving truck.

Still, part of us roots for the chaos. Not because we want people homeless, but because we live for the small, messy rebellions of everyday life. The guy who refuses to hang up his HOA flag. The woman who names her goldfish “Property Manager.” Josh and Samantha aren’t heroes—they’re just two people who stopped paying rent and are now learning, the hard way, that corporations don’t do grace periods. But for one brief, shining moment, they lived as if rules didn’t apply. And honestly? In a world of rent hikes, student loans, and $8 avocado toast, a little anarchy is kind of refreshing.

Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re off to check our own lease agreement—just in case we’ve been subconsciously plotting a quiet rebellion of our own.