Courtesy Loans v. Joshua Harson

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a loan company in Craig County, Oklahoma, is dragging a man to court not just because he owes $938.67—but because he’s also allegedly hoarding some mysterious, unnamed personal property like it’s the One Ring from Lord of the Rings. We don’t know what it is. The affidavit doesn’t say. It’s just… out there. Somewhere in Miami, Oklahoma (yes, there’s a Miami in Oklahoma), Joshua Harson allegedly clutches both cold hard cash and unnamed belongings that don’t belong to him, and Courtesy Loans is done playing nice. This isn’t just a debt case. This is a modern-day treasure hunt with paperwork.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Courtesy Loans—sounds friendly, right? Like the kind of place that offers you a quick cash advance between paychecks with a wink and a smile. Probably operates out of a strip mall next to a payday lender and a bail bondsman. They’re the plaintiff, which means they’re the ones filing the suit, claiming someone owes them money. And on the other side? Joshua Harson, an individual who, based on the sparse details, lives at 502 20th Ave NW in Miami, OK—a town so small it makes “main street” look like an afterthought. There’s no attorney listed for either party, which means this is likely a DIY legal showdown, two regular folks (or a regular business and a regular dude) going toe-to-toe in the civil arena with all the legal polish of a high school debate club. No fancy suits, no legal jargon beyond what’s copied from a form—just raw, unfiltered small-claims energy.

Now, what actually happened? Well, according to the affidavit—basically a sworn statement that kicks off this whole mess—Joshua Harson borrowed $938.67 from Courtesy Loans. That’s specific. Not $900. Not “about a thousand.” $938.67. Which makes you wonder: was this a loan for a specific purchase? Did he need exactly $938.67 to fix his truck, cover a vet bill, or maybe finally install that hot tub he’s been dreaming about since 2017? We may never know. What we do know is that Courtesy Loans handed over the cash, and Harson… didn’t pay it back. And not only that—he allegedly still has some of their stuff. Yes, personal property. The kind you’d expect to be itemized in a legal document, right? A laptop? A power washer? A limited-edition Oklahoma Sooners bobblehead? Nope. The form literally has blank lines: “described as ________________________” and “value of said personal property is $__________________.” It’s like someone started filling out the paperwork, then got distracted by a squirrel. The vagueness is almost poetic. It’s not just that Harson won’t return the items—it’s that we, the public, the court, possibly even the judge, have no idea what they are. This case hinges on a mystery inventory that might as well be a box labeled “Misc. Stuff – Do Not Open.”

So why are they in court? Because Courtesy Loans wants their money and their stuff back. In legal terms, this is a “claim for money loan,” which is exactly what it sounds like: “Hey, you borrowed cash, you didn’t pay it back, now we’re suing.” It’s one of the most basic civil claims out there—right up there with “you hit my car” or “you didn’t finish my roof.” But here’s the twist: they’re also seeking possession of personal property. That means they’re not just asking for money—they want the court to order Harson to hand over whatever he’s got that belongs to them. And because this is a civil case (not criminal), the stakes are about compensation, not jail time. But still—imagine getting served because you won’t give back a lawn mower or a Bluetooth speaker. That’s the energy here. It’s not grand larceny. It’s petty, personal, and oddly intimate.

Now, let’s talk about what they want. Courtesy Loans is asking for $938.67. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, no. You could buy a decent used motorcycle for that. Or a really nice couch. Or, if you’re fancy, a single night at a Las Vegas hotel. But for someone living paycheck to paycheck in rural Oklahoma, nearly a thousand bucks can be a mountain. For a loan company? Probably a rounding error. But it’s not just the money—they want their mystery belongings back. And if Harson doesn’t show up to court? The order says judgment will be entered by default, meaning Courtesy Loans wins automatically. They get the cash, they get the court costs, and potentially attorney fees (though neither side has a lawyer, so that might be moot). They also get the satisfaction of having the state officially declare: “Joshua Harson is a loan-dodging, property-hoarding scoundrel.” Or, you know, the legal equivalent.

Here’s the thing: this case is so small, so utterly mundane, that it’s fascinating. It’s the legal version of a soap opera filmed in a laundromat. Two parties, one loan, an unknown stash of items, and a courthouse showdown scheduled for April 17, 2024—though the document is dated March 6, 2026, which either means time travel is real or someone really messed up the calendar. (Our money’s on the latter.) But the real absurdity? The blank lines. The fact that a court order is being issued over unspecified property feels like a prank. Did they forget to fill it out? Was it intentional? Is this some kind of legal loophole where you can claim anything as long as you don’t name it? “Your Honor, the defendant is in possession of… things.” It’s like a ransom note written by a bureaucrat.

And yet, beneath the comedy, there’s a human story. Maybe Harson borrowed the money in an emergency. Maybe he lost his job. Maybe he disagrees he even owes it. Maybe the “personal property” is something he believes was given to him, not loaned. Or maybe—just maybe—he’s sitting on a stash of Courtesy Loans-branded tote bags and refuses to let go of his merch. We don’t know. The filing doesn’t say. And that’s what makes this so delicious. It’s a blank canvas of drama. A $938.67 mystery with a side of missing objects.

Our take? We’re rooting for the truth. And also for someone, somewhere, to finally fill in those blank lines. What is the property? A drill? A winter coat? A signed photo of the Courtesy Loans founder? Until we know, this case remains a masterpiece of ambiguity—a tiny legal feud with the soul of a detective novel. And if Harson shows up to court with a cardboard box labeled “Your Junk,” we’re demanding a sequel.