Tower Loans v. Morian Straub

Let’s be real: someone is going to court over $412.24. Not $412.25—no, the.24 cents matters. This isn’t a heist, a betrayal, or a custody battle over a vindictive cat. This is Tower Loans versus Morian Straub, and the fate of 412 bucks and change hangs in the balance like it’s the final dollar in a high-stakes poker game on a reality TV show. Welcome to small claims court, Oklahoma style—where the stakes are low, the paperwork is high, and someone’s gotta explain why they didn’t pay their loan back. Again, 412.24. Let that number marinate.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Tower Loans, which sounds like a medieval siege weapon but is actually a payday lending company with an office in Broken Arrow and a phone number that probably rings directly into the soul of financial anxiety. They make short-term, high-interest loans—the kind that can spiral if you don’t pay them back fast. Think “rent-a-car” but for your paycheck, with more fees and fewer complimentary mints on the dashboard. They’re represented here not by a team of corporate sharks, but by McKenzie McLeary, who swore under oath that yes, Morian Straub owes them money. That’s it. That’s the whole legal team for the plaintiff: one person with a last name that sounds like a rejected Game of Thrones character.

On the other side is Morian Straub, born February 25, 1997, which makes him about 29 years old at the time of filing—old enough to know better, young enough to still believe he can YouTube his way out of a legal summons. He lives at 2314 S. Hickory in Tulsa County, which, as we’ll get to, is not Wagoner County. That’s important. Not because Morian moved across state lines to evade justice, but because small claims court has rules about geography, and Oklahoma takes its county lines more seriously than some people take their horoscopes.

Now, what actually happened? Well, according to the affidavit—legal speak for “sworn statement that’s basically the drama log of a lawsuit”—Morian took out a loan from Tower Loans. The document doesn’t say how much he borrowed originally, what the interest rate was, or whether he signed the paperwork in blood or just clicked “I agree” on a sketchy website. But it does say he now owes $412.24. And Tower Loans wants it back. They sent a demand. Morian, allegedly, did not respond. Or if he did, his response was probably some version of “I’ll pay you next week,” which, in legal terms, does not count as payment.

Here’s where it gets juicy: Morian doesn’t live in Wagoner County. He lives in Tulsa County. So why is this case being filed in Wagoner? Because, according to the affidavit, the loan was either signed or supposed to be repaid there. The law in Oklahoma—specifically Title 12, Sections 1752 and others—says you can sue someone in the county where the debt was incurred, even if they don’t live there. So Tower Loans is basically saying, “Hey, we’re based in Wagoner County, the contract was handled here, so we’re playing home court.” It’s like if your buddy borrowed $20 from you at a concert in Tulsa and then moved to Norman—you can’t chase him down, but you can sue him in Tulsa, assuming you’re petty enough. And apparently, Tower Loans is.

So why are they in court? Because this is a “collection of open account,” which sounds like a fancy accounting term but really just means “you owe us money and haven’t paid.” No fraud. No broken promises. No dramatic embezzlement. Just a loan that went unpaid. In legal terms, Tower Loans is asking the court to officially recognize that Morian owes them $412.24 and to issue a judgment forcing him to pay it. If he doesn’t show up to court, the judge can just sign off on it automatically. It’s not a trial; it’s more like a formality with consequences.

And what do they want? $412.24. Plus costs. Plus, if the law allows, attorney fees. Now, is that a lot of money? Well, let’s put it in perspective. $412.24 is: - Two nights at a mid-tier hotel. - One iPhone charger, if you buy Apple products and also hate yourself. - Three months of a Spotify subscription, if you really love music and also hate your bank account. - Or, in small claims court terms: totally worth suing over, apparently.

Because here’s the thing—Tower Loans didn’t write this off. They didn’t send it to a collection agency with a threatening voicemail. They didn’t even try to negotiate. They went straight to court. Over four hundred bucks. And they hired a lawyer—well, technically, their affidavit was signed by an employee, but the filing was processed by James E. Hight, the court clerk, who is listed as the filing attorney, which is… unusual. Court clerks are supposed to be neutral. They’re the referees, not the players. But here, the clerk’s name is on the document like he’s dropping the mic. It’s like the referee in a boxing match also showing up with gloves, yelling, “I’ll fight him myself!”

The hearing is set for March 26, 2026, in the Wagoner County Courthouse, which, if you’ve never been to a small claims court, is basically the DMV of legal drama. You’ll see people arguing over dog bites, broken lawnmowers, and now, apparently, $412 payday loans. Morian has to show up with “all books, papers, and witnesses” to defend himself. Does he have receipts? A text thread saying “I’ll pay you soon”? A notarized letter from his astrologer explaining that Mercury was in retrograde when the payment was due? We don’t know. But if he doesn’t show, the court will just say, “Yep, you owe it,” and Tower Loans wins by default.

Now, our take? The most absurd part isn’t that someone’s being sued for $412. It’s not even that the court clerk’s name is all over the document like he’s personally offended. It’s that this is how debt collection works. This is the machine. A company loans someone a few hundred bucks, probably at a sky-high interest rate, the person falls behind, and instead of cutting a deal or writing it off, they file a lawsuit in a county that may or may not have jurisdiction, all so they can get a judgment that might not even be collectible. And they do it with the solemnity of a murder trial. “Subscribed and sworn before me,” “the State of Oklahoma to the Defendant,” “books, papers, and witnesses”—all for a debt smaller than most people’s monthly phone bill.

We’re rooting for the chaos. We’re rooting for Morian to show up with a PowerPoint. We’re rooting for him to argue that the loan agreement violated the Geneva Conventions. We’re rooting for him to counter-sue for emotional distress caused by aggressive auto-dialer calls. Or better yet, we’re rooting for him to pay the $412.24 in cash, in pennies, in a shoebox, and force the court to count every single one. Because at this point, it’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. And the sheer, unadulterated pettiness of it all.

Because let’s be honest—this case isn’t about justice. It’s about bureaucracy. It’s about a system that treats a $412 debt with the same gravity as a property dispute, and a court that runs like a well-oiled machine, even when the spark plug is a loan officer named McKenzie swearing under oath that yes, Morian Straub owes them change for a twenty.

And hey—maybe Morian will show up. Maybe he’ll have a story. Maybe he’ll say the loan was forgiven. Maybe he’ll say he paid it in Bitcoin. Or maybe he’ll just sit there, silent, while the judge sighs and signs the judgment, and another tiny gear in the great debt machine clicks forward.

But whatever happens, one thing’s for sure: someone, somewhere, is going to have to explain why 412 dollars and 24 cents was worth a court date, a sworn affidavit, and a deputy clerk’s signature.

And honestly? We’re here for it.