BancFirst, an Oklahoma State Banking Corporation v. David Alvarez dba Alvarez Construction Unlimited, LLC

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not a murder mystery. There are no secret affairs, no hidden wills, no dramatic courtroom confessions. But what is happening in Canadian County, Oklahoma, is somehow even more American: a bank is suing a construction company for $7,789.77. Yes, that’s seven thousand, seven hundred eighty-nine dollars and seventy-seven cents. Not a typo. And not for a loan, not for fraud, not for embezzlement — but for overdraft fees. That’s right. We are three minutes into this legal saga and already, the stakes are as high as your average cable bill dispute, but with more legalese.

BancFirst, Oklahoma’s very own state-chartered banking institution — the kind of name that sounds like it should be on a brick building with columns and a suspiciously enthusiastic jingle — has filed suit against David Alvarez, who does business as Alvarez Construction Unlimited, LLC. Now, let’s pause for a second. “Unlimited.” That’s the word David chose for his construction business. Not “Reliable,” not “Solid Foundations,” not “We Won’t Ghost You After Drywall.” Unlimited. And yet, apparently, his bank account had limits. Very strict, very expensive ones. So strict that bouncing a few checks somehow spiraled into a nearly $8,000 debt. That’s not construction-grade debt — that’s overdraft avalanche territory.

So who are these players? On one side, BancFirst: a well-established regional bank with branches across Oklahoma, more lawyers on retainer than most people have in their entire family tree, and a zero-tolerance policy for when your account goes into the red. On the other side, David Alvarez — a solo operator running a construction business out of Canadian County, which, if you’re not from around here, is not in Canada (shocking, we know). It’s just outside Oklahoma City, home to suburbs, strip malls, and now, apparently, a civil war over bank fees. The relationship between these two was supposed to be simple: BancFirst provides banking services, Alvarez writes checks, everyone gets paid, life goes on. But somewhere along the way, the checks started bouncing harder than a rubber ball in a bounce house.

According to the petition — and remember, this is BancFirst’s version of events, so take it with a grain of salt the size of a pressure-treated 2x4 — Alvarez had a checking account under the name of his business. Standard setup. But then came the overdrafts. Plural. Not just one “oops, I forgot about that $47.50 invoice” moment, but enough to rack up fees that snowballed into a grand total of $7,789.77. Let that number marinate. That’s not chump change. That’s a new HVAC system. That’s a down payment on a used dump truck. That’s a lot of drywall screws. And according to the bank, the contract — that sacred, probably 47-page PDF nobody reads — clearly states that Alvarez agreed to pay not just the overdrafts, but the fees on top of the fees, and even the attorney fees if it ever came to this. Spoiler: it did.

Now, how does a checking account turn into a legal showdown? Picture this: checks get written. Checks bounce. Fees get charged. More fees get added. The balance grows. The bank sends notices. Maybe they call. Maybe they email. Then, on January 14, 2026 — a chilly Tuesday, probably — BancFirst sends a formal demand letter. “Pay up,” it likely said, in banker English. “Or else.” And according to the filing, Alvarez did… nothing. No payment. No call. No “Hey, my dog ate the checkbook.” Radio silence. So BancFirst did what any self-respecting financial institution does when it wants its money: it lawyered up. Enter Bret D. Davis — yes, his middle initial is D, like “Dollar,” like “Damages,” like “Dude, this is getting serious” — and his colleagues at Lamun Mock Cunnyngheim & Davis (and yes, we’re still trying to pronounce that last name without laughing). They filed the petition on March 11, 2026, demanding judgment for the full $7,789.77, plus attorney fees, court costs, and “any other and such other and further relief” — which sounds like legal code for “and maybe a sandwich, while you’re at it.”

Now, let’s talk about what’s actually being claimed here. BancFirst isn’t accusing Alvarez of fraud. They’re not saying he forged checks or stole money. No, the charge is much more mundane: breach of contract and nonpayment of account. In plain English? “You agreed to pay the fees when you signed up, you didn’t pay them, and now we want our money.” It’s the financial equivalent of returning a rental car with less than a full tank and getting hit with a “convenience fee” that costs more than a full tank. Annoying? Yes. Illegal? No. But also, kind of brutal when it adds up to almost eight grand.

And that brings us to the big question: is $7,789.77 a lot? In the world of construction, maybe not. A single job could cover that. But in the world of overdraft fees? That’s a red flag the size of a billboard. Most banks charge $30–$35 per overdraft. So for BancFirst to claim nearly $7,800 in fees and charges, we’re talking about hundreds of overdrafts, or fees compounding daily, or some kind of fee-stacking that makes your eyes water. Either Alvarez was writing checks like a caffeinated squirrel on payday, or the bank’s fee structure is designed to turn a minor cash flow hiccup into a financial black hole. And honestly? That’s the kind of thing that makes people distrust banks. It’s not the crime. It’s the math.

So what does BancFirst want? Money. Specifically, $7,789.77. Plus attorney fees — which, given that they’ve hired a whole law firm, could easily add another few thousand. Plus court costs. Plus “any other relief” the judge feels like granting. In other words, they want to be made whole, plus a little extra for the inconvenience of having to sue someone for not paying their bank fees. Is that fair? Well, they had a contract. But let’s not pretend this is about justice. This is about risk management. Banks make money not just from interest, but from fees — especially from small businesses that might not have a CFO or a legal team. And when you’re a one-person construction outfit named “Unlimited,” but your bank account says otherwise, you’re a sitting duck for this kind of bill.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this case isn’t the amount. It’s the precision. $7,789.77. Not $7,800. Not “approximately eight grand.” No, it’s $7,789.77. That extra 77 cents? That’s the sound of a spreadsheet having a nervous breakdown. That’s the bank saying, “We’ve calculated your downfall down to the penny, David, and we will have our quarter-moon of justice.” And yet, for all the cold, hard numbers, there’s a human story here. Maybe Alvarez had a rough season. Maybe a client stiffed him. Maybe the plumbing on a job went sideways and took his cash flow with it. Construction is hard. Cash flow is tight. And one missed payment can start a domino effect that ends in a courtroom over seventy-seven cents.

Do we think BancFirst will win? Probably. Contracts are contracts. But do we root for them? Not really. We’re not saying banks should eat losses. But when a business named “Unlimited” gets crushed by fees, and the bank comes in with a team of lawyers over a sum that could’ve been negotiated over coffee, it feels less like justice and more like financial whack-a-mole. At the end of the day, this isn’t just about $7,789.77. It’s about who gets to define “unlimited” — the dreamer with a hammer, or the bank with the balance sheet.

And if you ask us? Neither side feels like a winner. But at least BancFirst got their 77 cents. God help us all.