Velocity Investments, LLC v. Melissa Hart

Let’s get one thing straight: nobody wakes up one morning and says, “You know what I want? To owe $45,000 to a company I’ve never heard of, for a loan I supposedly took out from a bank with a name that sounds like a Silicon Valley yoga retreat.” But here we are. In the quiet, pine-forested hills of Le Flore County, Oklahoma—where the rivers run slow and the legal drama runs fast—a financial game of hot potato has landed in court, and someone named Melissa Hart is allegedly holding the debt.

Now, who is Melissa Hart? Honestly, we don’t know. She could be a schoolteacher, a trucker, a retired seamstress, or someone who once won second place in a chili cook-off at the Poteau Rodeo. The filing doesn’t say. What we do know is that on or about March 5, 2024, she allegedly entered into a loan agreement with a financial institution named Sofi Bank, National Associatio—yes, spelled without the “n” at the end. (We’re not judging, Sofi. Maybe it’s a branding thing. “Less is more. Even in spelling.”) The petition claims she received “valuable consideration,” legalese for “got some cold, hard cash,” and then—plot twist—failed to pay it back. Classic.

But here’s where it gets juicy. Because the plaintiff in this case isn’t Sofi Bank. It’s not even a bank at all. It’s a company called Velocity Investments, LLC, which, based on the name alone, sounds like a firm that specializes in high-speed financial collisions. They didn’t lend Melissa the money. They didn’t shake her hand or send her a welcome email with a stock photo of a smiling couple buying a house. No. They bought her debt. That’s right. At some point after Melissa stopped paying—possibly after a series of dings from Sofi’s automated reminders, maybe a few calls from collections—someone decided, “You know what? This $44,852.06 debt is too valuable to let go.” So Sofi—or someone downstream from them—sold it to Velocity Investments, who then hired a law firm to sue Melissa and get their money back. It’s like financial whack-a-mole, except the mole owes nearly fifty grand.

And who’s handling this high-stakes collection effort? RAUSCH STURM LLP, a firm whose website probably says things like “We don’t just collect debts—we pursue them.” Their attorney on the case, Nicholas Tait (OBA #22739, in case you were wondering if he’s legit—spoiler: he is), filed the petition on February 16, 2026, with the kind of precision that suggests this isn’t their first rodeo. In fact, the document includes that classic debt collector disclaimer: “This is a communication from a debt collector,” which is basically the legal equivalent of “I’m not a monster, I’m just doing my job… while also being a monster.”

So what exactly is Velocity suing for? Breach of contract. That’s the legal way of saying, “You signed up for this, you got the money, and now you’re ghosting us.” The loan allegedly defaulted, meaning payments stopped, and the contract was “accelerated”—a sneaky clause that turns “you owe us $500 a month for 10 years” into “you owe us everything right now.” After “all due and just credits applied” (a phrase that sounds suspiciously like “we ran the numbers and still think you owe us a lot”), the total comes to $44,852.06. That extra six cents? That’s the financial equivalent of leaving a penny on the table. “No, Melissa, we will be collecting that last cent. Six of them, actually. Principles.”

Now, is $44,852 a lot? Well, in Le Flore County, where the median household income hovers around $45,000 a year, yes. That’s an entire year’s income—gone, allegedly, because of a loan gone bad. For context, that’s enough to buy a decent used truck, make a down payment on a modest home, or fund a very ambitious backyard renovation involving a hot tub, a tiki bar, and a mechanical bull. It’s not “bailout a small country” money, but it’s also not “forgot to cancel a gym membership” money. This is serious debt. And Velocity isn’t just asking for the principal—they want costs, post-judgment interest, and “all subsequent costs,” which could mean legal fees, court fees, and possibly the cost of Nicholas Tait’s third espresso of the morning.

Oh, and there’s one more bizarre request: they want the court to order the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission (OESC) to hand over Melissa Hart’s employment history. Why? Probably to figure out if she’s working, where she’s working, and whether they can garnish her wages if they win. It’s not uncommon in debt cases, but it still feels like a lot. Imagine getting sued and then finding out a third-party law firm wants your entire work history. It’s like your past retail jobs at JCPenney and Dairy Queen are now evidence in a civil trial. “Your Honor, the defendant did work the night shift at Sonic in 2018. Clearly, she has a pattern of handling money under pressure.”

Now, let’s talk about what’s not in the filing. There’s no explanation of what the loan was for. Did Melissa buy a car? Start a business? Pay for medical bills? Fund a cross-country move to find herself? We don’t know. There’s no mention of hardship, no claim that she tried to negotiate, no hint of whether she even knew the debt was sold. And while the petition is “verified” by counsel—meaning Nicholas Tait swears under penalty of perjury that he believes the facts are true—we still don’t know if Melissa agrees. Maybe she disputes the amount. Maybe she says she never took the loan. Maybe she thinks “Sofi Bank, National Associatio” is a phishing scam. We won’t know until she files a response—if she files one at all.

Here’s the thing about debt collection lawsuits: they’re often one-sided. The plaintiff files, the defendant doesn’t show up, the court issues a default judgment, and boom—wage garnishment. It happens all the time. And while Velocity Investments has every legal right to pursue this debt (assuming they actually own it and the paperwork checks out), there’s something deeply surreal about a faceless LLC suing an individual over a debt that’s changed hands like a hot potato at a family reunion.

So what are we rooting for? Honestly? We’re rooting for answers. We want to know what this loan was for. We want to hear Melissa’s side. We want to know if Velocity can actually prove they own the debt—because sometimes, in the wild world of debt buying, companies sue people for money they don’t actually have a right to collect. And we definitely want to know if Sofi Bank, National Associatio ever considered just spelling out their name.

Look, money matters are serious. But when a company with a name like “Velocity Investments” sues someone for nearly fifty grand over a loan from a bank that sounds like a meditation app, and then demands your employment history like they’re casting a reality show—well, it’s hard not to see the absurdity. This isn’t Breaking Bad. It’s Broke Bad. And we’re here for it.

(But seriously—this is entertainment. We’re not lawyers. Don’t take financial advice from a true crime podcast for petty civil disputes. Though if you do owe Sofi Bank money… maybe pay it.)