Modem Loan Inc v. Alfred Lee Cryer

Let’s cut right to the chase: a man in Oklahoma is being sued for $993.30—less than a thousand bucks—over a personal loan. That’s not even enough to cover a down payment on a used lawnmower, let alone a car, a wedding, or a single night at a decent hotel. But here we are, in the hallowed halls of the Carter County District Court, where the state of Oklahoma, through its legal machinery, is preparing to flex on Alfred Lee Cryer for refusing to pay what, on paper, looks like a minor financial hiccup. Except it’s not just about the money. It’s about principle. It’s about paperwork. It’s about the fact that someone, somewhere, decided this was worth dragging into court. And honestly? We’re here for it.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Modem Loan Inc.—yes, Modem, like the ancient internet device your parents used to dial into AOL while you did homework on a flip phone. This is not a typo. The company, based in Ardmore, Oklahoma (population: roughly 25,000, and now possibly one fewer after this drama), appears to be a small-time lender, likely operating in the personal loan space for folks who need a few hundred bucks to cover an emergency, a car repair, or maybe just to keep the lights on until payday. They’re not Wells Fargo. They’re not even LendingTree. They’re the kind of outfit that might hand you cash out of a back office with a handshake and a promissory note scribbled on a napkin—except, clearly, they do things with slightly more paperwork, since we’re reading an affidavit here, not a sticky note.

On the other side is Alfred Lee Cryer, a resident of 1418 Rutledge Drive SE, Ardmore, Oklahoma. That’s it. That’s all we know. No criminal record mentioned. No history of loan defaults. No dramatic backstory about a gambling problem or a failed chicken farming venture. Just a guy who, at some point, borrowed money from Modem Loan Inc., signed a contract, and then… didn’t pay it back. That’s the whole crime. The entire saga. The financial equivalent of returning a library book three months late and getting a sternly worded notice. Except this isn’t the library. This is the court system. And Modem Loan Inc. is not messing around.

Now, what actually happened? Well, the filing doesn’t give us the juicy details—no text message screenshots, no dramatic confrontation at a gas station, no missed payments accompanied by passive-aggressive voicemails. Instead, we get the cold, hard facts of the affidavit: Alfred borrowed money. He signed a contract. He defaulted. Modem Loan Inc. asked for their money. He said no. They asked again. He still said no. And now, nearly a thousand dollars later, they’ve decided to sue. That’s it. That’s the plot. There’s no claim of fraud, no accusation of stolen property, no dramatic repossession attempt. Just a straightforward “you owe us, you won’t pay, so we’re taking you to court” situation. The most exciting part of the document might be the typo in the notary date—March 2026? That’s three years in the future. Are we getting spoilers from the legal future? Did someone accidentally time-travel their court summons?

But let’s talk about why they’re actually in court. The legal claim here is for “personal property and money judgment,” though the personal property section is left blank—no description, no value, nothing. So we can safely assume this isn’t about a seized TV or a repossessed scooter. This is purely about the money. Modem Loan Inc. wants a judgment from the court declaring that Alfred Lee Cryer legally owes them $993.30, plus court costs. That’s standard procedure in small claims-type cases: if someone doesn’t pay, you go to court to get a judgment, which then allows you to potentially garnish wages, seize assets, or at least scare them with the threat of credit damage. It’s not about revenge (well, maybe a little), but about enforcement. The contract said pay up. He didn’t. So now the state steps in to say, “Hey, actually, you do have to.”

And what do they want? $993.30. Let’s put that in perspective. That’s not a life-changing sum. It’s not going to buy a new roof or cover a hospital bill. It’s not even enough to cover a full month’s rent in most places. But for a small lender, especially one operating on thin margins, every dollar counts. Maybe this is part of a pattern—maybe Alfred is one of many deadbeats who’ve stiffed Modem Loan Inc., and they’re making an example of him. Or maybe they’re just tired of chasing him down and want the court to do the heavy lifting. Either way, the demand is clear: pay up, or face the consequences. And those consequences? A judgment on his record, potential damage to his credit, and the lingering shame of being sued over less than a grand.

Now, here’s the real tea: Modem Loan Inc. waived their right to a jury trial. That means they’re not interested in a dramatic courtroom showdown with witnesses, cross-examinations, or impassioned closing arguments. They just want the judge to look at the contract, see that Alfred didn’t pay, and issue a judgment. It’s efficient. It’s boring. It’s also kind of cold-blooded. No negotiation. No second chance. Just: you broke the agreement, now suffer the legal consequences. Meanwhile, Alfred hasn’t filed any response we can see—no counterclaim, no defense, no “I lost my job” sob story. Maybe he doesn’t know about the case. Maybe he’s ignoring it. Or maybe he’s just betting the whole thing will go away if he stays quiet. Spoiler: it won’t.

So what’s our take? Look, we’re not here to defend deadbeats. If you borrow money, you should pay it back. That’s how society works. But come on—this is $993.30. That’s not a fortune. That’s a few tanks of gas, a decent laptop, or a slightly overpriced smartphone. And yet, here we are, with a notary swearing in a claim three years in the future, a company named after outdated internet technology, and a man whose entire financial downfall hinges on a sum that wouldn’t even cover a weekend getaway to Tulsa. The most absurd part? Not the amount. Not the typo. It’s the sheer escalation. Instead of a phone call, a payment plan, or even a sternly worded letter, we went straight to court. This isn’t justice. This is bureaucracy with a side of pettiness.

And yet… we’re rooting for the drama. We want to know: will Alfred show up? Will he bring a check? Will he argue that “Modem” sounds like a sketchy operation and therefore the contract is void? Will someone finally explain why the notary date is in 2026? Is this a glitch in the legal matrix? We may never know. But one thing’s for sure: in the grand tradition of civil court absurdity, this case is a perfect example of how far we’re willing to go to win a very small battle. And honestly? We wouldn’t have it any other way.