Anthony S. Moore v. Benjamin Floyd Pittman

Let’s get one thing straight: this isn’t The Good Place. This is Oklahoma. And right now, a dead woman’s estate is trying to evict a man who’s been living in her house like he owns the place—except, plot twist, he absolutely does not. That’s right: we’ve got a ghost in the machine, but not the supernatural kind—just the legal kind. The real haunting here? Unauthorized occupancy, lack of paperwork, and the bureaucratic purgatory of property law.

So who are these people, and how did we end up in a courtroom drama that feels like a rejected episode of Hoarders: Estates Division? On one side, we have Betty J. Anderson, a woman who, unfortunately, is no longer with us. Her estate—basically the legal version of her afterlife administrator—is being handled by Anthony S. Moore, who wears the official hat of “Personal Representative.” That means he’s not a blood relative (at least not one mentioned), but he’s the one tasked with cleaning up Betty’s earthly affairs, including, apparently, getting squatters out of her house. And speaking of squatters—enter Benjamin Floyd Pittman, a man who, according to the filing, has been camping out at 404 North 6th Street in Clinton, Oklahoma, like it’s an Airbnb he never checked out of. Only there’s no reservation. No lease. No handshake deal. Just Benjamin, the house, and a growing list of legal problems.

Now, let’s talk about how we got here. The house at 404 North 6th Street belongs to Betty J. Anderson’s estate. That much is clear. Whether she lived there, rented it out, or just used it as a weekend getaway for one is unclear—but what is clear is that Benjamin Floyd Pittman is living there without permission. No lease. No contract. No “Hey, Betty, can I crash here?” text message from 2018. Nothing. It’s not even like he’s paying rent to a shady landlord or claiming some kind of verbal agreement. Nope. He’s just… there. Like a human houseguest who never got the memo that the party ended. And now, the estate—via Anthony S. Moore—wants him out. Fast.

The legal process for this kind of eviction in Oklahoma is called a “Forcible Entry and Detainer” action. Sounds dramatic, right? Like someone broke in with a crowbar and a vendetta. But in reality, it’s just the formal way the law says, “You’re not supposed to be here, and we want the keys back.” It’s used when someone is unlawfully occupying a property—whether they broke in, overstayed a lease, or, in this case, just… showed up and never left. The estate claims they followed the rules: they posted a notice to quit on the door (very dramatic, very Old West) and then sent a certified letter on February 2, 2026. That’s two forms of official “get out” messaging—like sending a breakup text and leaving a note on the fridge. If you ignore both, you’re either emotionally dense or legally defiant. Pittman appears to be the latter.

So what does the estate actually want? Not money. Not revenge. Not even a public apology. Just the house. They’re asking the court to issue a judgment giving them “possession and control” of the property—which is legalese for “make Benjamin leave and give us the keys.” They also want the court costs and “reasonable attorney fees,” which, in this case, seems to be Anthony S. Moore billing himself for his own time, since he’s representing the estate without a law firm. That’s… unusual. Like showing up to a divorce hearing as your own therapist. But hey, if he’s qualified, who are we to judge? (We are, however, legally obligated to remind you that we’re entertainers, not lawyers.)

Now, is $50,000 on the line? Nope. The filing doesn’t even list a monetary demand. This isn’t about big bucks—it’s about boundaries. And in the grand scheme of civil disputes, that makes it kind of noble? Or at least principled. The estate isn’t trying to squeeze Benjamin for damages or sue him into oblivion. They just want what’s theirs. And honestly, in a world where people fight over Pokémon cards and vintage Beanie Babies, it’s almost refreshing to see a lawsuit that’s not about greed. It’s about geography. And occupancy. And the basic rule that you can’t just live in someone else’s house because you feel like it.

But here’s the real kicker: we have no idea how Benjamin got there. Did he think he had permission? Was he a friend of Betty’s? A distant relative who believed he was entitled to the property? Or is this just a case of someone exploiting a loophole while the estate was tied up in probate limbo? The filing doesn’t say. There’s no backstory, no emotional plea, no “he helped her garden every Tuesday” justification. Just cold, hard facts: he’s there, he shouldn’t be, and they want him gone.

And that’s what makes this case so deliciously absurd. It’s not a murder mystery. It’s not a scandalous affair. It’s not even a messy divorce. It’s a property dispute so basic it feels like it should be settled with a sternly worded Post-it note. Yet here we are, in the District Court of Custer County, where the legal system is being asked to intervene in what amounts to “man won’t leave house.” It’s like watching a sitcom plot unfold in real time: The Odd Squatter, perhaps. Starring Benjamin as the lovable but delusional tenant who thinks emotional attachment trumps deed ownership.

Our take? We’re rooting for the estate. Not because Benjamin is a villain—maybe he’s just confused, or lonely, or genuinely believed he had a right to stay. But the law isn’t a feelings-based negotiation. You can’t will yourself into homeownership just because you’ve been watering the plants. Betty J. Anderson’s estate deserves closure. Anthony S. Moore deserves to close this file. And Custer County deserves a break from having to referee real-life episodes of Hoarders: Unauthorized Occupancy Edition.

Still, part of us wonders: what’s Benjamin’s story? Did he think he was doing Betty a favor by “protecting” the house? Did he move in after her passing, thinking no one would notice? Or is there some unspoken agreement that just never made it to paper? Until we get that side of the story, this case remains a legal cliffhanger—one where the only thing scarier than the eviction is the thought of someone living in your house after you’re gone.

So to Benjamin, we say: pack your bags. To the estate: good luck. And to the District Court of Custer County: may your gavel never tire.