Midland Credit Management, Inc. v. Michael Gibbins

Let’s cut straight to the chase: a man in Oklahoma is being sued for $993.08—yes, nine hundred ninety-three dollars and eight cents—over a credit card he didn’t pay. Not $9,000. Not $90,000. Less than a thousand bucks. And yet, here we are, in the hallowed halls of the Grady County District Court, where legal specialists are swearing under penalty of perjury about the last time a guy made a payment on a Credit One Bank card. This is not a heist. This is not a Ponzi scheme. This is not even a dispute over a backyard fence. This is a full-blown lawsuit over a debt so small you could blow through it on a single night at the Cheesecake Factory with tip and valet.

Meet Michael Gibbins. He is, as far as we can tell from the court file, an ordinary guy living an ordinary life in Oklahoma—probably owns a truck, maybe likes football, possibly has a dog named Buddy. He is not represented by a lawyer, which tells us he either doesn’t know he’s being sued (very possible) or doesn’t think it’s worth hiring counsel to fight over what amounts to a slightly overpriced laptop. On the other side? Midland Credit Management, Inc.—a debt collection company with the soul of a spreadsheet and the charisma of a parking ticket. They don’t make the original loans. They don’t issue credit cards. What they do is buy up old debts—often for pennies on the dollar—from banks that have given up on collecting, then sue people to get the full amount. It’s like being haunted by a ghost… that also sends you invoices.

So how did we get here? Let’s follow the paper trail. In July 2023, Michael Gibbins opened a credit card account with Credit One Bank, N.A.—a financial institution that specializes in credit cards for people with less-than-stellar credit. The account number? Redacted, because we’re not total monsters, but let’s call it “Account No. 0679” for dramatic effect. For a while, things were fine. Payments were made. The machine hummed. Then, on May 13, 2024, the last payment was posted. After that? Radio silence. No more money coming in. The account went dark.

By January 12, 2025, Credit One had had enough. They “charged off” the account—accounting speak for “we’re writing this off as a loss.” But here’s the twist: they didn’t just throw it in the trash. They sold it. Or assigned it. Or handed it off like a baton in a very depressing relay race. On February 18, 2025, Midland Credit Management became the proud new owner of Michael Gibbins’ financial regrets. And they didn’t come in peace. They came with spreadsheets, affidavits, and a legal team in Oklahoma City ready to file suit.

Enter William L. Nixon, Jr.—attorney at law, bar number 012804, and the man who apparently thought, “Yes, today is the day we sue over $993.08.” On December 23, 2025—yes, Christmas Eve Eve—Nixon filed a Petition for Indebtedness, claiming that Gibbins owes Midland exactly $993.08, plus interest, plus court costs, plus the emotional toll of having to deal with this whole mess. Attached to the petition is an affidavit from one Jennifer Dittberner, a Legal Specialist from St. Cloud, Minnesota (a city so cold, it makes Oklahoma look like the Bahamas), who swears under penalty of perjury that she has reviewed the electronic records and, yes, the balance is indeed $993.08 as of December 5, 2025.

Now, let’s talk about what’s actually happening here, legally speaking. Midland isn’t accusing Gibbins of fraud. They’re not saying he stole money or forged checks. They’re filing what’s called a “Petition for Indebtedness,” which is a fancy way of saying, “This person owes us money, and we want the court to make them pay.” It’s one of the most common types of civil lawsuits in America—right up there with “my neighbor’s tree fell on my car” and “my landlord won’t return my security deposit.” The claim is straightforward: Gibbins defaulted on a credit card, the debt was sold, and now Midland wants the court to issue a judgment forcing him to pay. If they win, they can garnish wages, seize bank accounts, or just ruin his credit even more. All for less than a grand.

And let’s be real: $993.08 is not nothing—but it’s also not life-changing money. It’s about three months of car insurance for a decent driver. It’s a decent used iPhone. It’s two round-trip flights to Florida if you book early and don’t check a bag. But in the world of debt collection, it’s worth the paperwork. Midland likely paid maybe $200 for this debt. If they win, they pocket nearly $800 in pure profit—minus legal fees, of course. But even if they spend $500 on attorney time (which, let’s be honest, is probably inflated), they’re still coming out ahead. This is not about justice. This is about volume. Midland isn’t suing Michael Gibbins because he’s special. They’re suing him because he’s one of thousands. They file these petitions like algorithms—mass-produced, minimally reviewed, mechanically processed. It’s litigation as an assembly line.

So what do they want? Judgment for $993.08. Plus interest at the statutory rate (which in Oklahoma is 5% per year unless the contract says otherwise). Plus court costs. Plus whatever else the judge feels like giving them. No punitive damages. No injunctions. No dramatic courtroom showdowns. Just money. Cold, hard, slightly embarrassing money.

Now, here’s where we, the impartial entertainers of CrazyCivilCourt, take off the neutral hat and put on the slightly judgmental one. The most absurd part of this case isn’t that someone is being sued for under a thousand bucks. That happens every day. No, the absurdity lies in the theater of it all. We have a notary in Stearns County, Minnesota, certifying an affidavit about a debt in Oklahoma. We have a legal specialist in St. Cloud swearing under penalty of perjury that she has “personal knowledge” of Michael Gibbins’ payment history—despite never having met him, never having spoken to him, and likely never even pronouncing his last name correctly. We have a law firm in Oklahoma City filing suit on Christmas Eve Eve, probably because they had to hit a quarterly filing quota. And we have a man in Grady County who may not even know he’s being sued until his wages are garnished.

Is Michael Gibbins in the wrong for not paying his credit card? Maybe. But is this legal machinery—this cold, impersonal, profit-driven system of debt collection—what we want justice to look like? Probably not. We’re not rooting for deadbeats. We’re not saying people should skate on their bills. But suing someone for $993.08 with the same legal rigor as you’d use in a corporate embezzlement case? That’s not justice. That’s paperwork with delusions of grandeur.

So here’s our verdict, folks: if Midland wins, they get their money. But if Michael Gibbins shows up in court with a printed-out receipt for a $1,000 money order “accidentally” mailed to the wrong address, we’re giving him a standing ovation. Because sometimes, the most heroic thing you can do is make a debt collector work for their paycheck.