Evan Medler/Shawna Medler v. Meghan Nash

Let’s be real: if your tenant is getting evicted because the neighbors are calling the cops more than they call their mom, you’ve got a problem. And in Bryan County, Oklahoma, that problem has a name—Meghan Nash—and a docket number: SC-26-134. According to her landlords, Evan and Shawna Medler, Meghan didn’t just play music too loud—she turned 608 Mooney Street into what sounds like a 24/7 underground nightclub with a side of chaos, complete with mysterious vehicles rolling in at all hours and noise complaints that probably had the entire block Googling “how to soundproof walls.” Now, the Medlers aren’t asking for rent. They’re not even asking for damages in dollars. They’re asking the court to just… make her go away. And honestly? We’re on the edge of our seats.

So who are these people? On one side, you’ve got Evan and Shawna Medler—presumably a couple, possibly named Evan or Gusan, possibly named Evon, possibly just victims of inconsistent spelling in court documents. They own a rental property in Colbert, Oklahoma, a town so small it makes “quiet living” a selling point. This is not New York City. This is not even Tulsa. This is the kind of place where if your dog barks during The Price is Right, someone’s writing a strongly worded letter to the HOA. And the Medlers, like any reasonable landlord in a sleepy Southern town, probably expected their tenant to keep things low-key. Enter Meghan Nash, the tenant who allegedly treated their quiet rental like a pop-up rave venue with a revolving door for suspicious vehicles. No criminal charges are mentioned—just a steady drumbeat of disturbances that pushed the Medlers to say, “No more.” The relationship, if it ever existed beyond a lease agreement, appears to have gone up in smoke faster than a meth lab in a bad Breaking Bad fanfiction.

Now, let’s unpack what actually happened—or at least, what the Medlers are swearing under oath happened. Somewhere between the signing of the lease and March 9, 2022, things went off the rails. The Medlers didn’t file this eviction over unpaid rent. They didn’t even claim Meghan trashed the place or stopped paying utilities. Nope. Their entire case hinges on one checkbox: “The tenant has caused imminent danger or engaged in criminal activity.” And under that, they wrote: “Traffic all hours of the night different vehicles in and out numerous music complaints.” That’s it. That’s the whole smoking gun. No mention of drugs, no police reports attached, no broken windows or fistfights—just a relentless parade of cars coming and going at all hours, and music so loud it inspired multiple complaints. Picture it: neighbors squinting through blinds at 2 a.m., muttering, “Not again,” as another pickup truck peels out of the driveway. A bassline thumping through the walls like a heartbeat from hell. The local gossip mill spinning faster than a ceiling fan in a tornado. This wasn’t just a noisy tenant—it was a vibe disruption of epic proportions. And in a town like Colbert, that’s basically a war crime.

So why are they in court? Because in Oklahoma, landlords can file for eviction not just for unpaid rent, but for lease violations that create “imminent danger” or involve criminal activity. The Medlers are arguing that Meghan’s behavior—whether intentional or just wildly inconsiderate—crossed the line from “annoying neighbor” to “public nuisance.” They didn’t demand money. They didn’t ask for repairs. They didn’t even try to work it out with a sternly worded letter (or at least, not one they’re admitting to). Instead, they went straight for the legal eject button. And here’s the kicker: they didn’t even serve her the notice themselves. They posted it and sent it by certified mail—meaning they likely taped something to her door and then mailed a copy, the legal equivalent of ghosting someone but with more paperwork. Now, Meghan has until the hearing on March 16—just one week after the filing—to show up in Durant, walk into courtroom 300 of the Bryan County District Court, and explain why she shouldn’t be kicked out. If she doesn’t show? Boom. Default eviction. Case closed. No drama. Just a quiet win for the Medlers and a permanent stain on Meghan’s rental history.

Now, let’s talk about what they want. Or more accurately, what they don’t want. There’s no dollar amount listed for damages. No demand for back rent. No mention of cleaning fees or broken drywall. The Medlers aren’t suing for money—they’re suing for peace and quiet. They want the court to declare that Meghan has to leave. That’s it. No financial windfall, no revenge payout. Just… go away. And in that sense, $50,000 wouldn’t even matter here—because this isn’t about money. It’s about control. It’s about the sanctity of a rental agreement that probably had a “no loud parties” clause buried in paragraph 12. It’s about the unspoken social contract that says, “You can live here, but don’t turn my duplex into a music festival.” In small-town Oklahoma, where reputation matters more than credit score, this kind of eviction could follow Meghan like a bad Yelp review. Future landlords might Google her name and see “SC-26-134 – Eviction for Noise and Vandalism” and say, “Hard pass.” So while no cash is being demanded, the stakes are high—just in a different currency.

Our take? Look, we’ve all had that neighbor. The one who thinks 2 a.m. is the perfect time to host a karaoke session or argue loudly with their significant other about who forgot to buy toilet paper. But this? This feels like a lifestyle, not a lapse in judgment. “Traffic all hours of the night”? That’s not a party. That’s a scene. And unless Meghan was running a late-night taco truck out of her living room or hosting underground fight clubs, the Medlers’ frustration is… understandable. But here’s the absurd part: the court filing is basically a glorified complaint letter with a notary stamp. There are no police reports. No photos. No affidavits from neighbors. Just the Medlers’ word against the ghostly echo of bass from down the street. And yet, in the eyes of Oklahoma law, that might be enough. We’re not saying Meghan is innocent. We’re not saying the Medlers are overreacting. But the idea that a few noise complaints and some late-night visitors can trigger a full eviction hearing—with a judge, a summons, and a court date—feels like using a flamethrower to light a candle. Is it legal? Sure. Is it dramatic? Absolutely. Do we want to sit in that courtroom just to see if Meghan shows up with earbuds still in, shrugging like, “It was just my cousin’s birthday”? 100%. We’re rooting for clarity. We’re rooting for accountability. But mostly, we’re rooting for someone to finally install a noise meter in Bryan County. Because if this case teaches us anything, it’s that in small towns, the loudest crimes aren’t always the ones with guns—sometimes, they’re the ones with subwoofers.