Adrian Roof v. Grett Burns

Let’s be honest — we’ve all had a friend who borrowed a power drill and never gave it back. But when that drill turns into a $3,200 tool heist and ends up in a Creek County courtroom, you know we’ve officially entered civil war territory. This isn’t just about a missing cordless impact driver — this is a full-blown showdown over construction tools, unpaid debts, and the fragile trust between two people who probably should’ve texted before borrowing.

Meet Adrian Roof, our plaintiff, a man whose name sounds like a home improvement project gone rogue. He lives in Sapulpa, Oklahoma — a town where the pace is slow, but the grudges? Apparently, they move at warp speed. On the other side of this legal trench is Grett Burns, residing just outside Owasso (yes, that’s a real place, and yes, it sounds like a sneeze), who allegedly walked off with a haul of construction tools worth more than some people’s monthly rent. Now, before you start picturing a Mission: Impossible scene with Adrian rappelling into a warehouse to recover his Milwaukee 18V set, let’s get real: this is likely a messy, personal fallout between two guys who may have once shared a six-pack and a truck bed full of gear.

According to the court filing — which, by the way, is basically a notarized “he said” with legal consequences — Adrian claims Grett owes him $3,200 for tools. Not rent. Not a car loan. Tools. And not just a hammer and a tape measure, either — we’re talking about a collection of construction equipment that, collectively, adds up to the price of a used Honda Civic’s down payment. The affidavit doesn’t specify whether we’re dealing with a full DeWalt toolbox, a vintage hand plane collection, or a haunted chainsaw (though we’re keeping that last one on the table), but $3,200 says this wasn’t just a casual borrow of “Hey, can I use your level for a sec?”

Now, here’s where things get juicy — and slightly confusing. Adrian’s affidavit actually presents two possible claims, like he wasn’t quite sure which legal lane to swerve into, so he just took both. First, he says Grett owes him $3,200 as a debt for the tools — meaning, presumably, Grett either bought them and never paid, or borrowed money from Adrian to buy them and stiffed him. But then, in the very next paragraph, Adrian pivots hard and says, “Wait, no — actually, Grett is wrongfully in possession of my personal property.” So now it’s not a debt. It’s theft. Or at least, it’s tool-holding with intent to annoy.

This is the legal equivalent of saying, “I either lent you my jacket and you never paid me back for it, or you stole it — either way, give me $3,200.” Which raises the question: did Grett buy the tools and not pay? Or were they Adrian’s all along, and Grett just… never gave them back? The filing doesn’t say. But what it does say is that Adrian asked — politely, one assumes — for either payment or the tools, and Grett responded with what can only be described as a legal shrug: “Nope. Not happening.”

So now they’re in court. And not just any court — Oklahoma’s District Court in Creek County, where the stakes are low but the drama is high. Adrian is seeking $3,200 in monetary damages, which, let’s be real, is no joke. That’s not “I’ll Venmo you later” money. That’s “I could’ve bought a decent used truck” money. For a regular working person in rural Oklahoma, $3,200 is several months’ worth of side hustle earnings. So if Adrian’s telling the truth, he’s not just out some tools — he’s out a chunk of his livelihood. These aren’t kitchen gadgets; they’re work tools. If you’re a contractor, electrician, or DIY warrior, your gear is your job. Losing $3,200 worth of it isn’t like someone keeping your lawn mower. It’s like your coworker driving off with your entire office.

But here’s the twist: Adrian also wants injunctive and declaratory relief. In normal human terms, that means he wants the court to officially say, “These tools belong to Adrian,” and possibly order Grett to give them back. So he’s not just after cash — he wants his stuff. Which suggests that, emotionally, this isn’t just about the money. It’s about principle. It’s about ownership. It’s about the sacred, unspoken code of “you borrow my tools, you return them before I have to file a legal affidavit.”

And yet… we don’t know Grett’s side. Did he think the tools were a gift? Did they have a handshake deal that got lost in translation? Did Adrian lend them during a time when Grett was down on his luck, and now Adrian’s coming in hot with a court summons like a repossession agent? The filing doesn’t say. All we have is Adrian’s sworn statement — and the cold, hard fact that Grett hasn’t paid up or returned the goods.

The hearing is set for April 14, 2026, at 1:30 p.m. in Sapulpa, which means this feud has been simmering long enough to brew a whole pot of Oklahoma-sized resentment. And get this — Adrian signed an affidavit waiving his right to a jury trial. That’s right. He doesn’t want a panel of his peers deciding this. He wants a judge. Which either means he’s confident in his paperwork, or he knows this story sounds so petty that twelve random citizens might laugh him out of the courtroom.

So what’s our take? Look, we’ve all been burned by a friend who “borrowed” something and ghosted it. But $3,200 worth of tools? That’s not borrowing — that’s a hostile takeover. If Adrian’s telling the truth, then Grett’s not just in the wrong — he’s in the toolshed of shame. But here’s the absurd part: this entire legal spectacle hinges on a dispute that could’ve been solved with a single honest conversation. Or a text. Or even a “hey man, I sold the tools to pay my electric bill, sorry.” Instead, we’ve got a notarized affidavit, a court order, and a showdown scheduled for a spring afternoon in Sapulpa.

We’re rooting for resolution — not revenge. We want someone to walk into that courtroom with a toolbox in hand and say, “Here you go, Adrian. I was wrong.” Or for Grett to hand over a check and say, “I forgot, my bad.” But knowing how these things go, we’re more likely to get stony silence, awkward eye contact, and a judge sighing deeply before ruling on who owns a $400 angle grinder.

At the end of the day, this isn’t just about tools. It’s about trust. It’s about accountability. And it’s a reminder that in small-town Oklahoma, even your cordless drill can become a legal liability. So next time someone asks to borrow your tools? Maybe get it in writing. Or at least take a photo of them holding your stuff — you never know when you’ll need exhibit A.