FISHERS AUTO MALL INC v. CAROLYN MARIE DECULUS

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not a murder mystery. There’s no missing body, no secret affair, no twist ending involving a long-lost twin. But what this Oklahoma civil case does have—what makes it truly chef’s kiss in the world of petty courtroom drama—is a car dealership demanding $14,506.53 from a couple who, somewhere along the way, failed to keep up with payments on a 2017 Chrysler 300. Yes, you heard that right. We are here, in the hallowed digital halls of CrazyCivilCourt, to dissect the legal fallout of a mid-tier sedan gone rogue. Buckle up. This one’s got more depreciation than drama, but somehow, it’s still wild.

Meet Carolyn Marie DeCulus and Daquery Lorde Sewell—two individuals who, in December 2021, walked into Fisher’s Auto Mall Inc. with dreams of open roads and that classic American luxury sedan vibe. The 2017 Chrysler 300 isn’t exactly a Lamborghini, but for someone who appreciates a car that looks like it belongs in a mid-budget crime procedural, it’s a solid choice. Leather seats, V6 engine, that bold grille—it says, “I’ve made it… to assistant manager at the regional call center.” And hey, maybe that was their moment. Maybe this car was supposed to be the chariot of a new chapter. We don’t know. What we do know is that on December 27, 2021, they signed a contract with Fisher’s Auto Mall to purchase said vehicle. Terms were agreed upon. Handshakes may or may not have been exchanged. The ink dried. The keys were handed over. The American dream, momentarily, was in motion.

But then—plot twist!—life happened. Or money dried up. Or the transmission went. Or maybe they just decided the Chrysler life wasn’t for them. Whatever the reason, Carolyn and Daquery stopped making their payments. That’s the nuclear option in car ownership, folks. You don’t just ghost your auto loan like it’s a bad first date. Cars are collateral. This isn’t a Netflix subscription you can cancel without consequences. When you default on a vehicle contract, the dealership doesn’t send a passive-aggressive email. They send a repo man. And that’s exactly what happened here.

The filing doesn’t say how the car was recovered—no dramatic chase scenes, no keys left under the mat with a note saying “sorry, it’s not you, it’s us.” But we do know the car was repossessed and subsequently sold. That’s standard procedure. The dealership recoups what it can by auctioning off the vehicle, then subtracts that amount from what the buyer still owes. But here’s the kicker: the sale didn’t cover the full balance. After the dust settled, Fisher’s Auto Mall was still out $14,506.53 in principal. And that, my friends, is how you go from driving a Chrysler to being on the wrong end of a civil lawsuit.

Now, before you start feeling too sorry for the dealership, let’s talk about that number. Fourteen thousand, five hundred bucks isn’t chicken feed—but in the grand scheme of car loans, is it insane? Let’s do some math. The 2017 Chrysler 300 had a starting MSRP of around $30,000. By 2021, when Carolyn and Daquery bought it, it was likely priced in the $15,000 to $20,000 range, depending on mileage and condition. If they put little or no money down and financed the rest, even with a high interest rate, you’d expect the loan to be structured over 60 months. But somewhere along the line, they fell behind. And when the car was repossessed and sold, the auction price probably didn’t reflect retail value—used cars lose value fast, and repo vehicles sell for even less. So the dealership eats the loss? Nope. They pass it on. That’s what this lawsuit is: a deficiency judgment. Translation: “You didn’t pay enough, and now we want the rest.”

But wait—there’s more. Not only does Fisher’s Auto Mall want the $14,506.53, but they’re also demanding $5,091.05 in interest—accrued at a whopping 12.9% per year from June 2023 to February 2026. Let that sink in. The interest alone is enough to buy a whole other used car. A 2015 Honda Civic with low miles, maybe. Or a slightly dented Nissan Rogue. That rate is brutal—way above average for an auto loan, but not unheard of in subprime financing, which often targets buyers with less-than-perfect credit. And let’s be real: if you’re buying a used Chrysler from a dealership that’s willing to sue you for nearly $20,000 in total, you were probably not getting the VIP interest rate reserved for people who pay their bills on time and own stock in banks.

The legal claim here is as straightforward as a highway: breach of contract. That’s lawyer-speak for “you signed a deal, you didn’t hold up your end, and now we’re coming for what’s ours.” No fraud. No theft. No wild accusations of sabotage or identity theft. Just a simple, sad story of a financial promise broken. Fisher’s Auto Mall isn’t asking for punitive damages (which would punish the defendants for particularly bad behavior), nor are they seeking to jail anyone. They just want their money. Plus interest. Plus attorney fees. Plus court costs. Because in America, even the process of suing someone costs money—and the loser often has to pay.

Now, here’s what’s really wild: the tone of this petition. It’s dry. It’s clinical. It reads like a grocery list written by a robot who just learned the word “indebtedness.” There’s no drama, no emotion, no “plaintiff is deeply aggrieved.” Just: they didn’t pay, we took the car, we sold it, we’re still short, please make them pay. And yet, between the lines, you can feel the quiet fury of a business that’s tired of people treating car loans like Monopoly money. Fisher’s Auto Mall didn’t come to play. They brought five attorneys from the firm Robinson, Hoover & Fudge, PLLC. Five. That’s not overkill. That’s overkill with a side of legal fries. Hugh H. Fudge—yes, that’s his real name—leads the charge, backed by Dani, Emily, Sean, and Keith. This isn’t a small claims court “I lent you $200 and you never paid me back” situation. This is full-blown corporate litigation machinery.

So what are we rooting for? Honestly? We’re rooting for clarity. For someone—anyone—to stand up and say, “Look, maybe the interest rate was too high. Maybe the loan terms were predatory. Maybe the car wasn’t even worth what they paid. But a deal is a deal.” Or conversely: “This is a textbook case of financial overreach, where a dealership profits twice—once when they sell the car, and again when they sue for the deficiency.” The truth is probably somewhere in the middle. Carolyn and Daquery made a choice to buy a car they may not have been able to afford. But Fisher’s Auto Mall also made a choice to lend them money at nearly 13% interest, knowing the risks.

At the end of the day, this case is a perfect little microcosm of the American credit system: shiny promises, fine print, and someone always left holding the bag. And while we can’t say who’s right, we can say this: if you’re ever thinking of skipping out on your car payments, just remember Carolyn and Daquery. Because that Chrysler 300? It may be gone. But the debt? Oh, that’s still cruising—right into court.