McClain Bank v. Michael D. Harryman

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a bank is dragging a man to court—swearing oaths, summoning sheriffs, threatening writs of assistance—over $866.32. That’s not a typo. We’re not talking about a foreclosure, a Ponzi scheme, or even a stolen Lamborghini. We’re talking about what is essentially the financial equivalent of forgetting to return a library book—except the library has hired a lawyer named Kerry L. Nemecik and is now prepared to sic the sheriff on you.

Meet McClain Bank, a small-town financial institution based in Purcell, Oklahoma, population 6,000, where the biggest excitement might be the annual Chisholm Trail Festival or the fact that they still have a functioning Dairy Queen. They are the plaintiff in this high-stakes legal showdown, represented not by some corporate law firm with mahogany offices and $800 suits, but by a solo attorney who appears to be handling this case with the solemn gravity of a constitutional crisis. On the other side: Michael D. Harryman, a man whose only known address is a modest street in Shawnee, Oklahoma, and whose current claim to fame is allegedly owing less than a thousand bucks to a local bank. There is no indication he’s a career criminal, a fugitive, or even someone who’s particularly good at budgeting. He’s just… a guy. A guy who, at some point, opened an account—Account #1055100, to be exact—and then, according to the bank, failed to keep up with whatever obligations came with it.

Now, the filing doesn’t give us the juicy backstory—no late-night gambling binges, no suspicious wire transfers to offshore shell companies in the Cayman Islands. No, this is not Billions. This is more like Bills. Singular. And overdue. According to the sworn statement, McClain Bank says Harryman owes them $866.32 due to a “default on account.” That could mean a lot of things—a bounced check, an overdraft that spiraled, a personal loan gone sideways, or maybe he just forgot to close an old checking account and fees piled up like dirty laundry. The bank claims they asked for payment. Harryman, allegedly, said no. Or possibly nothing at all. Either way, the money didn’t come. And so, like a medieval lord issuing a decree from the castle, the bank has gone to court to demand justice. Or at least their $866.

Why are we here, legally speaking? Let’s break it down without the legalese. McClain Bank is filing what’s known as a “debt collection” lawsuit—basically, when someone owes you money and won’t pay, so you ask a judge to make them do it. The legal claim? “Default on account.” That’s lawyer-speak for “you didn’t do what you promised to do with this financial agreement, and now we want our cash.” They’re also asking for “costs and fees,” which means they want Harryman to pay not just the original debt, but also the expenses of suing him—like court filing fees, service costs, and possibly attorney’s fees, if the contract allows it. And just to ratchet up the pressure, the petition includes a scary-sounding demand for “injunctive relief,” which in this context means they want the court to order Harryman to either pay up or face consequences—like, say, the sheriff showing up with a writ of assistance. That’s not a friendly note. That’s a legal order saying, “Hand over the property or we’ll take it.”

Now, here’s the kicker: the bank doesn’t even specify what property they’re after. The form has a blank space where they could’ve described a car, a trailer, a timeshare in Branson—but it’s empty. Did they forget to fill it in? Is this a boilerplate form they use for every deadbeat debtor, regardless of whether actual property is involved? Or is there a secret collateral agreement we don’t know about? The mystery deepens. But given the amount, we’re probably not talking about a yacht. More likely, this is just procedural overkill—like using a flamethrower to light a birthday candle.

So what does McClain Bank actually want? $866.32. Let’s put that in perspective. That’s less than the cost of a new iPhone. It’s about three months of Netflix, Hulu, and Disney+ combined. It’s the price of a round-trip flight from Oklahoma City to Denver if you book early and don’t check a bag. For a bank—even a small one—that’s not a catastrophic loss. It’s barely a rounding error. And yet, they’ve initiated formal legal proceedings, sworn affidavits, and summoned a man to appear in court under threat of enforcement by the sheriff. Is this about the money? Or is it about the principle? Or, more cynically, is it about setting an example? “Let this be a warning to all you Shawnee freeloaders—owe us even one dollar, and we will come for you with the full force of Oklahoma state law.”

And then there’s Michael D. Harryman. What’s his story? Is he down on his luck? Did he lose a job? Is he disputing the debt? Maybe he thinks the fees are unfair, or the account was closed years ago and this is zombie debt rising from the grave. Or maybe he just… forgot. Life happens. Cars break down. Kids get sick. Sometimes, $866 is a lot when you’re already stretched thin. But here’s the thing: in the eyes of the court, none of that matters—yet. He hasn’t filed a response (at least, not in this document), so right now, the bank’s version is the only one on record. And that version says: “He owes us. He won’t pay. Send the sheriff.”

Our take? Look, debt is real, and banks have a right to collect what’s owed. But there’s something darkly comic about the sheer overkill here. This isn’t a high-stakes corporate raid. This isn’t a fraud ring or identity theft. This is a local bank treating a sub-$900 debt like it’s a national security threat. The form is filled out with the same language you’d use to evict someone from their home or repossess a tractor. “Writ of assistance”? “Remove you from said premises”? Buddy, this isn’t a foreclosure—it’s a late fee. At what point does enforcement become embarrassment? At what point does “protecting assets” start looking like bullying?

And let’s talk about the human cost. Michael D. Harryman now has a court summons in his name. That’s a record. That’s stress. That’s time off work to go to Purcell and stand in front of a judge over a debt that, frankly, might’ve been resolved with a sternly worded letter or a single phone call. Instead, we’re here. In court. With notaries and deputies and legal threats over the price of a decent used lawn mower.

We’re not saying Harryman doesn’t owe the money. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s been dodging payments for years. But the spectacle of it all—the formality, the language, the implication that this man is “wrongfully in possession” of something (what?! A stolen pen from the bank lobby?)—feels less like justice and more like performance art. It’s the legal system on autopilot, churning out paperwork with all the drama of a courtroom thriller, but for a dispute that could’ve been settled over a cup of coffee at McDonald’s.

So here’s what we’re rooting for: a judge who looks at this case, sighs, and says, “Y’all really brought me this over $866?” And then makes them mediate it in the courthouse hallway like two kids fighting over a lunch tray. Because sometimes, the most civil thing in civil court is just… being civil.