LVNV Funding LLC v. Josh Hollingsworth

Let’s get one thing straight: Josh Hollingsworth owes $3,467.90. That’s not the insane part. The insane part? This amount has been passed around more times than a half-empty bag of party-size Doritos at a divorce party — and now it’s being litigated by a company called LVNV Funding LLC, which sounds less like a financial entity and more like a villainous tech startup from a Black Mirror episode.

We’re not even sure Josh Hollingsworth knows his debt has been reincarnated through a labyrinth of corporate handoffs involving WebBank, Avant Loans Funding Underlying Trust 2023-REV1 (yes, that’s a real name), Portfolio 43184 (which sounds like a government spy file), and finally LVNV Funding LLC, who’s now sitting in Creek County District Court like, “Pay up, Josh, or we’re taking your emotional well-being.” This isn’t just a debt collection case — it’s a corporate game of hot potato, and poor Josh is the potato.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Josh Hollingsworth, an individual whose only known crime appears to be owning a credit account that eventually went sideways. We don’t know if he maxed it out on concert tickets, emotional support air fryers, or a spontaneous trip to see the world’s largest ball of twine. All we know is that back in November 2022, WebBank extended him credit on account number ending in 5383. That’s where our story begins — not with a bang, but with a credit approval email.

On the other side? LVNV Funding LLC. Let’s be real: this isn’t some mom-and-pop collection agency running cold calls from a basement in Tulsa. LVNV is a professional debt buyer — the kind of company that purchases delinquent accounts in bulk, like buying expired milk at a warehouse sale, hoping at least some of it hasn’t gone completely sour. They specialize in buying debt for pennies on the dollar and then suing to collect the full amount. It’s a whole industry. And they’re represented by Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C. — a law firm whose name sounds like a 1970s soul band or a boutique law firm specializing in dramatic entrances. Their attorney, William L. Nixon, Jr., filed this petition with the precision of someone who’s done this exact thing approximately 4,327 times before.

Here’s how we got here: Josh got credit. Josh didn’t pay it back. WebBank, presumably after sending a few “We miss you!” emails and one stern “PAY NOW” letter, decided they didn’t want to deal with it anymore. So they sold the debt — or more accurately, it was transferred to Avant Loans Funding Underlying Trust 2023-REV1, which sounds like a cryptocurrency scheme but is, in fact, just another financial vehicle designed to obscure who actually owns what. Then, in February 2024, that trust sold a whole portfolio of delinquent accounts — including Josh’s — to LVNV Funding LLC or one of its predecessors. It’s like buying a mystery box on eBay: “You get 1,000 past-due accounts! Some may still be collectible! Good luck!”

Now, LVNV says Josh owes them $3,467.90. That’s not chump change — it’s enough to buy a decent used car, a year’s supply of protein powder, or a very convincing fake Rolex. But in the grand scheme of debt collection lawsuits? It’s on the lower end. Most debt buyers don’t bother suing unless the amount is at least a few thousand — too little, and the court costs eat the profit. Too much, and people actually show up to defend themselves. $3,467.90 is the sweet spot: annoying enough to matter, small enough that most people just ignore it and let a default judgment happen.

And that’s exactly what LVNV is banking on. Their entire business model runs on the odds that Josh — or people like Josh — won’t show up to court. No defense. No counterclaim. Just a quiet “judgment entered” and a win for the debt collector. They’ve even filed an affidavit swearing that the debt is valid, that they own it, that they’ve maintained proper records (which are “regularly and contemporaneously maintained,” according to Janet Cortez, the Authorized Representative who sounds like she could also vouch for the authenticity of Bigfoot sightings). They even waited more than 30 days after demanding payment — the legal equivalent of knocking once, then calling the cops when no one answers.

Now, let’s break down what they’re actually asking for. LVNV wants a judgment for $3,467.90. That’s the principal — the amount they claim is still owed after all “offsets, payments, and credits” have been applied. They also want interest at the statutory rate (which in Oklahoma is 6% per year unless the contract says otherwise — yawn, but fine). They want court costs (filing fees, service of process, etc. — probably a few hundred bucks). And they want a “reasonable attorney’s fee,” which is code for “please let us bill for the 17 minutes it took to file this form.” All of this is standard fare in debt collection lawsuits — it’s like ordering the combo meal at McDonald’s, but with more paperwork.

Is $3,467.90 a lot? Depends on who you ask. If you’re a debt buyer, it’s a rounding error. If you’re Josh Hollingsworth, it might be three months of rent, a car payment, or the difference between keeping the lights on and getting that “We’re Disconnecting Your Power” letter. But here’s the kicker: we don’t know if Josh even remembers this account. We don’t know if he disputes the amount. We don’t know if he filed for bankruptcy, died, moved to Mars, or simply lost the receipt. All we know is that a company he’s never heard of is now suing him in Creek County, Oklahoma, over a debt that’s changed hands more times than a viral TikTok trend.

And that’s where this case gets absurd. Not because $3,467.90 is outrageous. Not because Josh is definitely innocent. But because the entire system runs on invisibility. Debt gets sold, repackaged, and litigated by companies that weren’t even there when the credit was first extended. The original creditor? Gone. The paperwork? A scanned PDF referenced in an affidavit. The human connection? Severed. And yet, the obligation remains — like a ghost that still wants rent.

We’re not rooting for debt collectors. We’re not rooting for deadbeat borrowers, either. But we are rooting for transparency. For a system where you can actually see who owns your debt, where you can dispute it without needing a law degree, and where “just pay up” isn’t the only option when you’re being sued by a company named after a Wi-Fi router.

So here’s our take: if Josh shows up and fights this — even just to say “Hey, I didn’t know about this” — we’re cheering for him. Not because he definitely doesn’t owe the money, but because the deck is stacked. LVNV and Love, Beal & Nixon have done this dance a thousand times. They’ve got templates, affidavits, and a whole team of lawyers whose names are listed like credits at the end of a Marvel movie. Josh? He’s one guy, probably Googling “what to do if a debt collector sues you” at 2 a.m.

This case isn’t about $3,467.90. It’s about power. It’s about whether a financial system that treats debt like Monopoly money — buy it, sell it, collect $200 — still has room for actual people. And honestly? We’re tired of the game.