Nicollette Van Dusen DBA Sun Loan v. Sue Anna Roberts

Let’s cut right to the chase: a loan company in Shawnee, Oklahoma, is suing a woman not just for $2,138.07—but also demanding the court help them seize some unspecified personal property that, as far as we can tell, might not even be described anywhere in the filing. Yes, you read that right. They’re suing over a debt and demanding the return of… something. We don’t know what. It could be a toaster. It could be a haunted garden gnome. It could be a slightly used left shoe. The court filing doesn’t say. But by god, Sun Loan wants it back.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Nicollette Van Dusen, doing business as Sun Loan—a name that sounds less like a financial institution and more like a tanning salon with a side hustle in predatory lending. She’s based at 701 E Independence Street in Shawnee, which, according to Google Maps, is in a strip mall that also houses a nail salon and a place that sells used tires. Very high finance vibes. On the other side is Sue Anna Roberts, a local resident living just a few miles down the road at 414 N. Park Ave. We don’t know much about her—no criminal record cited, no dramatic backstory, no social media meltdown—just a woman who, at some point, borrowed money from Sun Loan and then, allegedly, failed to pay it back. The relationship, such as it was, appears to have started with a handshake (or more likely, a promissory note) and ended with a sworn affidavit and a deputy clerk’s stamp.

Now, let’s talk about what actually happened—or at least, what Sun Loan says happened. On March 3, 2020, Nicollette Van Dusen, acting as both plaintiff and presumably her own attorney (because who else would represent Sun Loan if not Sun Loan herself?), filed a Small Claim Affidavit in the District Court of Pottawatomie County. In it, she claims that Sue Anna Roberts owes her $2,138.07 “for unpaid loan.” That’s it. No loan agreement attached. No payment history. No explanation of interest rates, late fees, or how that oddly specific sum—$2,138.07—was calculated. Was it compounded weekly? Did it include a $0.07 charge for emotional distress? We may never know. But what we do know is that Sun Loan says it demanded payment, Roberts refused, and not a single penny has been paid. Classic borrower behavior, really—except, of course, that we haven’t heard her side of the story. For all we know, she returned the money in Monopoly cash and a note that said “LOL, enjoy.”

But here’s where it gets weird. In the same filing, Sun Loan claims that Roberts is “wrongfully in possession of certain personal property” belonging to them. They demand its return. They even say they’ve asked for it. She allegedly refused. And yet—and yet—there is no description of the property in question. The line where it should be is blank. It just says “of the value of $__________________________.” It’s like someone started to write it down and then got distracted by a squirrel. Did they forget? Did they assume the court would just know? Is this a test? Are we being punked? The only thing we can be sure of is that Sun Loan wants something back, and they’re willing to go to court to get it—even if they can’t remember what it is.

So why are they in court? Legally speaking, this is a straightforward debt collection case with a side of replevin—fancy lawyer talk for “give me back my stuff.” Sun Loan is claiming Roberts owes them money under a loan agreement, and they’re seeking judgment for the amount plus court costs. That part is normal. Small claims courts handle this kind of thing every day—people forget to pay their buddy back for concert tickets, a handyman doesn’t finish a job, a dog eats a rent check. But the property angle? That’s where things get legally spicy. In Oklahoma, to get a court order for replevin, you usually have to identify the property with some level of specificity. You can’t just say, “She has my stuff.” You have to say what stuff. A 2017 Honda Accord. A gold necklace. A signed first edition of The Great Gatsby. But here? Nothing. It’s like showing up to a garage sale and saying, “I’ll take whatever’s in that box,” only to find out the box is empty.

And what do they want? $2,138.07 in cash, plus court costs (that’s the “cc” in the filing, for those wondering), and the return of—again, we stress—the mystery item(s). Is $2,138 a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, no. You could buy a decent used car with that. Or pay off a year of student loans. Or, if you’re really fancy, rent a studio apartment in Shawnee for about eight months. But for a small loan company suing in small claims court? It’s a solid payday. Especially if they can also get their unidentified collateral back. But here’s the thing: if the property is worth more than the debt, why not just keep it and call it even? Maybe Sun Loan wants the drama. Maybe they’re building a case file. Or maybe they just really, really want that haunted garden gnome back.

Now, for our take—because we’re not just here to report the facts, we’re here to judge. The most absurd part of this case isn’t the debt. It’s not even the fact that the plaintiff is representing herself. It’s that Sun Loan filed a legal document demanding the return of property they didn’t describe. That’s like calling the police to report a stolen bike and saying, “It’s a bike. You’ll know it when you see it.” The court can’t enforce a claim over something that doesn’t exist on paper. And yet, here we are. A woman might have to show up in Courtroom No. 3 on April 1, 2020—April Fools’ Day, no less—to defend herself against a lawsuit that includes a blank line where the evidence should be.

Are we rooting for Sue Anna Roberts? Honestly, yes. Not because we think she’s innocent. Not because we hate loan companies (though let’s be real, they’re not exactly beloved). But because this case feels like a paperwork error dressed up as justice. If Sun Loan wants to play hardball, they should at least bring a full deck. And if they can’t remember what they lent her besides money, maybe they should’ve kept better records. Or at least written it down on a Post-it.

Look, debt is serious. Contracts matter. People should pay what they owe. But if you’re going to drag someone to court, you should probably be able to answer the question: What did you lose? Otherwise, you’re not a creditor. You’re just a person waving a piece of paper and yelling, “She has my stuff!”—which, come to think of it, might be the tagline for every small claims court in America.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But even we know that justice shouldn’t hinge on a blank line.