Student Loan Solutions, LLC v. Destiny F. Dunkley and Don Dunkley

Let’s cut straight to the chase: someone owes $26,944.73. Not $27,000. Not “about twenty-five grand.” No, we’re talking down to the penny—seventy-three cents past twenty-six thousand nine hundred and forty-four dollars. That kind of precision doesn’t happen by accident. Someone, somewhere, ran the numbers, triple-checked the decimals, and said, “Yep. This is the exact amount of financial disappointment we’re dealing with.” And now, in a quiet courtroom in Tulsa County, Oklahoma, a company called Student Loan Solutions, LLC is trying to collect that very specific sum from a mother and daughter duo named Destiny F. Dunkley and Don Dunkley—yes, Don, despite the name, also a woman, we’re assuming, unless she’s just really committed to gender-bending irony.

Now, before you start picturing shady loan sharks in trench coats chasing people down alleys, let’s get one thing straight: this isn’t The Godfather. It’s not even Suits. This is the civil court equivalent of a pop quiz on a Monday morning—routine, mildly annoying, but with just enough drama to make you lean in. Student Loan Solutions, LLC isn’t the original lender. Nope. They’re what’s known in the biz as an assignee, which is a fancy way of saying, “We bought someone else’s debt.” In this case, they stepped in after Sallie Mae Bank—the name that probably haunted Destiny and Don’s credit reports like a college-era ghost—decided it didn’t want to deal with collections anymore. So, like selling a bad poker hand, Sallie Mae offloaded the debt to Student Loan Solutions, who now gets to play the bad guy in this financial telenovela.

Who are these people? Well, Destiny F. Dunkley and Don Dunkley appear to be a mother and daughter, both residents of Tulsa County. The filing doesn’t give us their life stories, but we can read between the lines. At some point, likely years ago, one (or both) of them took out a student loan. Maybe it was for Destiny’s education. Maybe Don went back to school later in life. Maybe they both did. Whatever the case, college happened, loans were signed, and life—bills, jobs, groceries, car repairs, the usual circus—got in the way of repayment. Fast forward to 2026, and here we are: a lawsuit over a debt that’s grown, like a stubborn mold, into a very precise $26,944.73.

So what happened? Well, according to the petition, not much—just the quiet erosion of a promise. Somewhere along the line, the Dunkleys stopped making payments. The lender—or its successor—sent reminders. Maybe there were calls. Maybe letters. Maybe emails that went straight to spam. Then came the collections phase. Then the sale of the debt. And now? Now it’s court time. The filing is sparse on details—no dramatic missed payments, no accusations of fraud, no wild spending sprees on spring break cruises. Just a cold, hard assertion: You owe this. You haven’t paid. We want it. The claim? Breach of contract. In plain English: “You signed a deal to pay this money back. You didn’t. That’s a broken promise, and now we’re asking the court to make you pay up.”

And pay up they want—exactly $26,944.73. Plus interest. Plus court costs. Plus a “reasonable attorney’s fee,” because lawyers don’t work for exposure, even when they’re chasing down student debt in Tulsa. Is $26,944.73 a lot? Well, let’s put it this way: that’s enough to buy a decent used car, make a down payment on a house in some parts of Oklahoma, or fund a very ambitious avocado toast habit for the next decade. For a student loan, it’s not astronomical—no six-figure Ivy League price tag here—but it’s also not chump change. It’s the kind of debt that can hang over a family for years, the kind that shows up on credit reports like an uninvited guest at every financial decision. And now, instead of negotiating payment plans or loan forgiveness, we’re in litigation territory. No mediation. No settlement talks mentioned. Just: sue now, ask questions never.

What’s wild here isn’t the amount—it’s the vibe. This isn’t a case about betrayal or theft or even negligence. It’s about the slow, grinding machinery of debt collection. A business buys a loan. A family falls behind. The system kicks in. Lawyers file forms. Judges stamp papers. And somewhere, someone has to explain to their kid why Grandma can’t afford that birthday gift this year because the court said otherwise. The most absurd part? That $0.73. Think about it. Who actually tracks debt down to the penny? Who sends a law firm to court over seventy-three cents? Is that the cost of one stale donut in the courthouse cafeteria? A single sheet of printed paper? And yet, there it is—etched into legal history. $26,944.73. Not $26,944.72. Not $26,944.74. This is the financial equivalent of insisting your ex return all your DVDs, including the scratched one you forgot was theirs.

We’re rooting for resolution, frankly. Not for the plaintiff, not for the defendants, but for the idea that debt shouldn’t have to end in court. That there could be a system where people don’t get sued over student loans like they’re cartel kingpins. Where a mother and daughter in Tulsa aren’t defined by a number on a spreadsheet. Where $26,944.73 doesn’t become a public spectacle because someone missed a few payments during a pandemic, or a layoff, or just a really bad year. But this isn’t that world. This is the world of Fisher & Fisher, P.O. Box 700870, where emails are sent to [email protected] and [email protected] like this is just another Tuesday (which, let’s be honest, it probably is).

And so, the case rolls on. No jury demand. No dramatic testimony. Just a quiet, bureaucratic hammer waiting to fall. Will the Dunkleys show up? Will they settle? Will they disappear into the ether of uncollectible debt? We may never know. But one thing’s for sure: somewhere in Tulsa, someone is sweating over $26,944.73—and not just because of the amount, but because of what it represents. A promise broken. A system unforgiving. And a legal system that will happily sue you for seventy-three cents if it means keeping the lights on.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But if we were, we’d suggest everyone just take a deep breath, sit down, and maybe talk this out over coffee. Or at least drop the $0.73. For the sake of decency. And also, let’s be real, because nobody’s life should hinge on three quarters and a penny.