Carlson Ventures LLC v. Alyssa Hankins

Let’s get straight to the drama: a landlord is suing two former tenants for $12,924—over unpaid rent and a hole in the wall. Or maybe it was a broken tile. Or a missing light fixture. Honestly, we don’t know exactly what kind of devastation was left behind at Unit D of 2410 N. Wilburn in Bethany, Oklahoma, but whatever it was, someone’s demanding nearly thirteen grand to fix it, clean it, re-rent it, and presumably hire an exorcist to rid the place of bad vibes. Welcome to Carlson Ventures LLC v. Alyssa Hankins and Jessica Miller, where a simple lease gone sour has turned into a full-blown financial reckoning.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Carlson Ventures LLC—a name that sounds like a mid-tier real estate podcast hosted by a guy in a blazer with too many cufflinks. They’re the landlords, the property owners, the ones holding the lease agreement like it’s the Magna Carta. Represented by the ever-dramatic-sounding BASS LAW, P.C. (yes, all caps, like they’re yelling at you from the courtroom), they mean business. On the other side? Two Oklahoma County residents, Alyssa Hankins and Jessica Miller, who once signed a three-year lease thinking, “Sure, we can commit to something for longer than most reality TV relationships,” only to vanish into the night like fugitives from a home improvement show.

The story begins, as so many rental sagas do, with a handshake (or at least a digital signature). On May 2, 2023, Hankins and Miller signed a lease for a commercial unit—Unit D, to be precise—for a full three years, from July 1, 2023, to June 30, 2026. That’s 36 months of commitment. That’s longer than some marriages. And for a moment, all was well in the world of commercial real estate. Rent was paid. Taxes were proportioned. Maintenance fees were… presumably maintained.

But then, somewhere around October 1, 2024—just over a year in—the wheels started to fall off. According to the filing, that’s when the payments stopped. Not just rent, mind you, but the whole enchilada: rent, real estate taxes, common area maintenance, insurance, and administrative fees. All of it. Deadbeat mode: activated. By January 1, 2025, the silence was deafening. No checks. No Venmos. No “Hey, we’re going through a rough patch.” Just radio silence.

Now, landlords aren’t charities (shocking, we know), so Carlson Ventures didn’t just sit there weeping into their ledger books. They sent a formal 10-day notice on August 27, 2025, telling Hankins and Miller to pack their things and get out by September 6. The tenants, perhaps realizing the jig was up, vacated the premises—just four days late, on September 10. Classy exit, by the way. Not “smash-and-grab,” but more like “quietly slink out while the landlord’s at lunch.”

But here’s where it gets juicy. They left. But the lease? Still technically active. And according to the contract, they’re on the hook not just for what they already owe, but for the entire remaining term of the lease. That’s right—Carlson Ventures is demanding payment through June 30, 2026. And at a combined rate of $1,794.02 per month ($1,468.75 for rent and $325.27 for other fees), that’s future money they’re suing for. Even though the tenants are gone. Even though the unit could theoretically be re-rented. But hey, the filing says the landlord will incur “reasonable and necessary costs” to re-lease the place—probably meaning marketing, background checks, and emotional therapy for the property manager.

Now let’s talk numbers, because $12,924.43 is not chump change. That’s a down payment on a used Tesla. That’s a year of therapy. That’s a lot of drywall. According to the petition, the total unpaid amount before deductions was $14,724.43—covering back rent, taxes, fees, you name it. Then, they subtracted the $1,800 security deposit (because even landlords have to follow basic rules of decency) and arrived at the grand total of $12,924.43. But wait—there’s more. The landlord also claims $5,687.50 in property damage. Which means, if you’re doing the math, the actual past-due rent and fees amount to about $7,236.93. The rest? Alleged damage. That’s over half the total demand. So either Hankins and Miller threw a demolition derby in Unit D, or someone’s rounding up real aggressively.

Why are they in court? Legally speaking, this is a classic “breach of contract” case. That’s lawyer-speak for “you signed a deal, you didn’t hold up your end, now we’re coming for your wallet.” The lease was a binding agreement. The tenants stopped paying. They broke the contract. Boom. Case closed? Not quite. Because in civil court, especially in landlord-tenant disputes, the devil’s in the details. Can the landlord really demand rent for a unit they could re-rent? Should they have mitigated their losses by finding a new tenant instead of just sitting on the empty space? These are the kinds of questions judges love to ponder while sipping lukewarm coffee. And while the filing doesn’t mention any counterclaims, you have to wonder: did the place have mold? Was the HVAC older than the dinosaurs? Was the “common area maintenance” just a guy with a leaf blower and a dream?

As for what they want—Carlson Ventures isn’t just asking for the $12,924.43. They’re also gunning for attorney’s fees, court costs, and “any other relief the Court deems appropriate.” Translation: “We want everything but the keys to their car.” Is $12,924 a lot for a commercial lease dispute? Depends. For a retail space in a decent location, maybe not. But for a unit in Bethany, Oklahoma? That’s pushing it—especially when the damage claim is almost as big as the unpaid rent. If the “damage” is just normal wear and tear, this could blow up in the landlord’s face. Judges tend to frown on landlords trying to turn a security deposit into a personal renovation fund.

Our take? The most absurd part of this whole saga isn’t the money. It’s the timing. The tenants left in September 2025. The lease runs until June 2026. And the landlord wants them to pay for every single month until then—even though they’ve already vacated and the property could be re-rented. That’s like if you returned a rental car a week early and Hertz billed you for the rest of the month and charged you for a scratch they might find later. It’s aggressive. It’s bold. It’s the legal equivalent of throwing a chair in The Bachelor finale.

Are we rooting for the tenants? Honestly, no. They broke the lease. They stopped paying. That’s on them. But are we side-eyeing the landlord for tacking on $5,687 in damages with zero receipts, photos, or itemized lists? Absolutely. Where’s the proof? Did they hire an inspector? Get a quote? Or is this just a “you lived here, you broke it” free-for-all?

At the end of the day, this case isn’t about justice. It’s about leverage. Carlson Ventures is sending a message: “Sign a three-year lease, and we will collect, one way or another.” But if they can’t prove the damages or show they tried to re-rent the space, this whole $12,924 demand might collapse like a house of cards in a tornado.

Stay tuned, Bethany. Because in the world of petty civil court drama, $12,924 and a damaged wall is basically The Godfather.