Gaslamp Apartments, LLC, DBA Gaslamp Apartments v. Iehi I Chibbitty and Heaven I Pahsetopah and any and all other occupants

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not just a landlord trying to evict a tenant for unpaid rent. No, no, no. This is a full-blown real estate showdown between a corporate apartment complex and what appears to be a family that’s decided their lease agreement was more of a suggestion—like a menu at a buffet, where you can just keep eating even after you’ve been asked to leave. And now, Gaslamp Apartments, LLC—yes, that’s a real company name, and yes, it sounds like a dive bar in a Western movie—is dragging Iehi I Chibbitty, Heaven I Pahsetopah, and “any and all other occupants” (a delightful legal catch-all that could include a raccoon for all we know) into Creek County District Court over a whopping $1,433.18. That’s right. Fourteen hundred bucks. And a fight for a tiny apartment off Highway 66 in Sapulpa, Oklahoma. Welcome to the Thunderdome of civil court.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Gaslamp Apartments, LLC, a business entity with a name that evokes both oil lamps and frat parties, represented by attorney Nathan Mlner (yes, Mlner, not Miller—this is either a typo that’s gone unchecked or a bold statement). They own a little development called Gaslamp Landing Addition, which, despite the name, does not appear to feature gas lamps, landings, or any discernible glamour. It’s in Sapulpa, a town with a population just over 20,000, where the main attractions include a vintage train depot and the fact that it’s halfway between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. This is not Beverly Hills. We’re talking modest single-family units or garden-style apartments where the biggest luxury is probably central air.

On the other side: Iehi I Chibbitty and Heaven I Pahsetopah. Names that sound like they were pulled from a dreamcatcher convention. Are they related? Roommates? A married couple with a flair for the dramatic? The filing doesn’t say, but the inclusion of “any and all other occupants” suggests the place might be functioning as a pop-up commune. Maybe they’re hosting a spiritual retreat. Maybe they just never told the landlord they had a cousin sleeping on the couch. Whatever the case, they’ve been living at 9113 State Highway 66, Unit #6309—basically a mailing address with a view of asphalt—and they haven’t paid rent. Not a little. Not most of it. None of it. At least, that’s what Gaslamp claims. And now they want them out. Like, immediately.

Here’s how this little drama unfolded: At some point, Iehi, Heaven, and possibly a rotating cast of unlisted roommates signed a lease. They moved in. They started living their best lives in Unit #6309. But somewhere along the way, the rent stopped getting paid. According to the filing, Gaslamp demanded payment. They sent notices. They made calls. They did the whole landlord song and dance. But the tenants? Radio silence. Or worse: polite smiles and promises, followed by more non-payment. And now, the landlord says, they’re not only behind on rent—$1,433.18, to be exact—but they’re also allegedly trashing the place. The petition mentions “damages to premises,” though it doesn’t specify if we’re talking about holes in the wall, a destroyed carpet, or whether someone used a frying pan as a drum during a midnight ritual. The amount for damages? Listed as “$NA,” which, in legal terms, means “we’re mad about it, but we haven’t totaled it up yet.” Classic.

So Gaslamp did what any reasonable landlord would do: they filed for forcible entry and detainer—a fancy legal term that basically means “get off my property.” It’s the go-to lawsuit when a tenant won’t pay and won’t leave. No jury trial requested. No dramatic courtroom speeches. Just a swift, no-nonsense eviction process designed to get possession back to the rightful owner. And in this case, that owner is a business that likely has a portfolio of units and zero patience for free-loaders.

Now, let’s talk about what Gaslamp actually wants. First, they want possession of the property—meaning the sheriff can eventually show up, open the door, and say, “Time’s up, y’all.” That’s the injunctive relief part: a court order forcing someone to do (or stop doing) something. In this case: stop living here. Second, they want money—$1,433.18 in unpaid rent. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s pocket change. You could buy a used car for that. Or a really nice couch. Or, if you’re in Oklahoma, maybe two couches and a deep fryer. But for a landlord managing a small complex, even a few hundred dollars in unpaid rent adds up—especially if multiple tenants start thinking they can just… stop paying. And let’s not forget: they’re also seeking court costs and attorney’s fees, which means Nathan Mlner will likely bill hours for filing a two-page petition and serving a summons. Because in the legal world, even simple drama isn’t free.

But here’s the real tea: why is this entertaining? Because it’s so Oklahoma. It’s got everything: a mysterious naming convention (Iehi I Chibbitty? Heaven I Pahsetopah? Are the “I”s middle names? Initials? Titles?), a vague damage claim, a business with a name that sounds like a failed theme park, and a legal showdown over less than $1,500. This isn’t Succession. This is Sapulpa Squatters: The Rent Strike. And yet, it’s being handled with the same legal machinery as a billion-dollar corporate dispute. A court date is set for March 17, 2026—St. Patrick’s Day, in case anyone was hoping for a festive eviction. The defendants have until then to show up and explain why they should be allowed to stay. If they don’t? Default judgment. The sheriff gets a writ of assistance (which sounds like a wizard’s spell but is actually a court order to remove people). And then—poof—no more free apartment.

So what’s our take? The most absurd part isn’t the money. It’s the sheer drama of it all. This is a case where a company with a name that sounds like a saloon from the 1800s is suing two people with names that sound like they belong in a spiritual wellness retreat, over a unit on a highway that probably has a view of a Waffle House parking lot. And yet, it’s being treated with the solemnity of a constitutional crisis. We’re not rooting for the landlord. We’re not rooting for the tenants. We’re rooting for clarity. Did they destroy the apartment? Are they broke? Are they protesting rent prices? Are they performance artists making a statement about property ownership? The filing doesn’t say. And that’s the problem. This is civil court at its most tantalizing: a cliffhanger wrapped in a mystery, stuffed inside a summons.

One thing’s for sure: if Iehi and Heaven show up to court wearing ceremonial robes and demanding an audience with the judge to discuss “energetic imbalances in the lease agreement,” we’re going to need popcorn. And maybe a translator.