Zachery A. McLendon v. Brad McCahey

Let’s cut right to the chase: a man is suing his fishing buddy for $1,150 over an unpaid fishing debt and is also billing him $400 for two days he took off work—as if this was a corporate deposition, not a weekend trip to the lake. Yes, you read that right. This isn’t a joke. This is a sworn affidavit filed in Bryan County, Oklahoma, where one angler is demanding compensation not just for money allegedly owed, but for lost productivity because he had to stop working to sort out this very dispute. If petty lawsuits were an Olympic sport, this one would be on the podium, wearing a tracksuit and holding a bass lure like a torch.

So who are these two? On one side, we’ve got Zachery A. McLendon, the plaintiff, who appears to be a regular guy with a fishing rod and a surprisingly strong grasp of civil procedure. On the other, Brad McCahey, the defendant, who lives on Treaty Road in Calera, Oklahoma—a name that sounds like it belongs in a country song about unresolved beefs and muddy pickup trucks. The filing doesn’t spell it out, but the context screams friends who used to be tight. Probably shared coolers, swapped stories about the one that got away, maybe even promised each other first dibs on the best fishing spot. But somewhere between casting lines and cracking beers, something went sideways. And now, instead of bro-hugs and tackle box trades, we’ve got affidavits and court dates. The ultimate betrayal? Not a stolen wife or a borrowed truck never returned—but a fishing debt. And not just any fishing debt. A $1,150 fishing debt. That’s not just a tank of gas and a six-pack. That’s a full-blown expedition. A bass boat rental? A guided trip in Arkansas? A week at a fancy lodge where they serve fried catfish and call it “cuisine”? We don’t know. But whatever it was, someone’s holding a grudge and a calculator.

Now, let’s reconstruct the Great Fishing Debacle of 2026. According to McLendon’s sworn statement, McCahey owes him $1,150. Break that down, and it’s $750 for the actual fishing debt—whatever that means—and another $400 for “taking two days off work for costs.” Let that sink in. McLendon isn’t just mad about the money. He’s mad enough to take time off his job to deal with this mess, and now he expects McCahey to foot the bill for his lost wages. It’s like if you lent your friend $20 for concert tickets, they never paid you back, and then you took a personal day to file a police report and later invoiced them for your hourly rate. “Sorry, man, you owe me $20… plus $180 for emotional labor and lost productivity.” That’s next-level pettiness. And yet, here we are.

Was the $750 for gear? Did McLendon front the cost of rods, reels, bait, and a motel near the lake, expecting McCahey to split it, only to be ghosted afterward? Did they go on a fishing tournament together and McLendon covered the entry fee, betting on glory and shared glory, only to discover McCahey skipped town with the dream? Or—here’s a spicy theory—was this a fishing trip loan, like McCahey said, “Bro, I’m strapped, can you cover me this time?” and McLendon, in a moment of ill-advised generosity, said, “Sure, but you better pay me back,” only to be met with silence, radio silence, and then the slow, cold realization that he’d been played by a man who probably smells like minnows and regret?

Whatever the origin, the relationship clearly went south. McLendon demanded payment. McCahey refused. No partial payments. No “I’ll get you next week.” Just nothing. And so, like any self-respecting modern Oklahoman wronged, McLendon did what any of us would do: he marched down to the courthouse and filed a petition. No lawyers. No drama. Just an affidavit, a notary, and a dream of justice—plus $400 in wage reimbursement for the two days he had to spend not working because he was, presumably, dealing with the fallout of this aquatic betrayal.

Now, let’s talk about what’s actually happening in court. McLendon is suing under a cause of action called “unpaid debt,” which, in plain English, means: “You borrowed money or agreed to pay for something, and now you’re not paying, so I’m taking you to small claims court.” This isn’t about assault. It’s not about slander. It’s not even about a damaged boat motor. It’s about a debt—simple, allegedly agreed upon, and now allegedly ignored. The court will look at whether there was a clear agreement, whether money changed hands (or was supposed to), and whether McCahey had a reason not to pay. But here’s the kicker: McLendon is also asking for $400 in lost wages. That’s… not typical. Courts can award costs, but “I took two days off work to deal with your nonsense” is not usually a line item on a judgment. Unless McLendon is self-employed and can prove actual lost income, that $400 might be a stretch. But hey, he’s asking. And in the wild world of small claims court, where people sue over dog bites, broken promises, and stolen lawn gnomes, ambition is half the battle.

The total demand? $1,550. Is that a lot? Well, for a fishing trip, maybe. For a used car, no. For a single weekend of “work” spent filling out court forms and swearing under oath that your buddy stiffed you on a bass boat rental? That’s a $775 hourly rate. McLendon might want to consider suing himself for overcharging.

But here’s the real tea: this case is less about the money and more about the principle. It’s about the sacred code of the bro. You don’t borrow $750 from a friend and vanish. You don’t let someone cover your costs and then act like it never happened. In the unwritten rulebook of male friendship, especially in rural Oklahoma, this is a cardinal sin. It’s not just about the cash—it’s about respect. And when respect is broken, sometimes the only recourse is the District Court of Bryan County.

Still, let’s be real: the most absurd part isn’t the fishing debt. It’s the $400 for two days off work. Did McLendon really clock out of his job to write this affidavit? Did he tell his boss, “Sorry, gotta sue my fishing buddy today—personal emergency”? Is he a contractor who lost a job? A gig worker who missed shifts? Or is this just a creative way of saying, “You wasted my time, so now you pay”? Because if it’s the latter, then this isn’t a debt case. It’s a vibe check lawsuit. And vibes, my friends, are not legally enforceable. At least not yet.

We’re not lawyers, but we are fans of drama, and this case has the makings of a modern classic. It’s The Odd Couple meets Judge Judy, with a side of catfishing—literally. We don’t know who’s in the right. Maybe McCahey really did promise to pay and then ghosted. Maybe McLendon inflated the numbers. Maybe there was a misunderstanding. Maybe the fish didn’t even bite. But one thing’s for sure: no one wins in court. Especially not friendships.

Still, we’re rooting for transparency. We want receipts. We want to know what the $750 was for. Was it a fancy fishing charter? A trip to Table Rock Lake? Did they go deep-sea fishing in the Gulf and McCahey ate all the shrimp dip? We need answers. And while we’re at it, we’d love to see the text messages. The awkward calls. The moment when McLendon realized he’d have to sue over a hobby that’s supposed to be about relaxation.

At the end of the day, this case is a cautionary tale: don’t borrow money from friends for fishing trips unless you’re ready to pay up—emotionally, financially, and legally. Because in Oklahoma, apparently, even the quietest lakes have stormy legal undercurrents.