BancFirst v. Mason Darrell McEvers

Let’s get right to the absurd heart of this: a bank is dragging a man to court over $904.99 — less than the cost of a used car down payment, less than a decent TV, less than what you might spend on takeout if you really hated your kitchen — and doing so with the full, soulless machinery of the legal system. We’re not talking about fraud, embezzlement, or a Ponzi scheme. No, this is not The Wolf of Wall Street. This is The Overdraft of Ardmore — a high-stakes legal drama over a checking account that went sideways and now, somehow, ends up in small claims court like a bad sitcom episode written by a robot programmed only to enforce debt.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got BancFirst — not some shadowy collection agency with a call center in a basement, but an actual, real-life bank. A bank that, if you’ve driven through Oklahoma, you’ve probably seen: brick facade, bronze logo, maybe a drive-thru with a teller who knows your dog’s name. It’s the kind of bank that sponsors Little League teams and hands out free toasters when you open a savings account. And yet, here it is, represented by attorney David G. Mordy, PLLC — yes, the firm name is literally the man’s name, like a law firm out of a 1940s noir film — filing a lawsuit over a negative checking account balance. On the other side? Mason Darrell McEvers. That’s it. No title, no company, no backstory. Just a guy whose name sounds like it was pulled from a dusty voter roll, and whose current mailing address, according to the court filing, “is to be determined.” Which, let’s be honest, does not inspire confidence in his ability to balance a checkbook — or avoid being sued by a regional financial institution.

Now, what happened? The filing doesn’t give us a dramatic tale of reckless spending, a forgotten direct deposit, or a tragic misunderstanding involving a bounced rent check. Nope. All we know is that Mason had a checking account at BancFirst, and at some point, the account went into the red — so far into the red that the bank eventually “charged it off,” which is banker-speak for “we gave up and wrote it off as a loss.” But here’s the twist: even after writing it off, the bank is still coming after Mason for the difference — $904.99 — which they’re calling a “deficiency balance.” That means after any fees, overdraft charges, or attempts to recover funds (like seizing a linked savings account or selling the debt), there was still this stubborn little gap of just over nine bills. And instead of letting it go — because, again, this is less than a month of Netflix, therapy, or avocado toast for a millennial with a problem — BancFirst said, “No. We’re taking this to court.”

Why are they in court? Legally speaking, this is a debt collection case — specifically, a claim for a personal money judgment. BancFirst is asking the court to officially declare that Mason owes them this money, so they can then — if they win — potentially garnish wages, freeze bank accounts, or just slap a judgment on his credit report that’ll haunt him like a bad tattoo. It’s not about the money anymore; it’s about principle. Or maybe just about precedent. Or possibly just about the fact that banks have automated systems that auto-file these cases when debts hit a certain threshold, and nobody at BancFirst actually looked at this and said, “Wait, is it worth our attorney’s time to sue someone over $905?” But no. The machine rolled on. The affidavit was sworn. The clerk stamped it. And now, on April 10, 2026, at 9:00 a.m., in the Carter County Courthouse in Ardmore — a town so quiet the biggest scandal last year was a disputed rodeo goat-roping result — a judge will decide whether Mason Darrell McEvers must pay back less than a thousand bucks to a bank that probably makes that in interest before lunch.

And what do they want? $904.99. That’s the number. That’s the demand. Not a round thousand. Not even $905. No, it’s $904.99 — which suggests this isn’t a ballpark figure. This is precise. This is forensic accounting at work. This is someone in a cubicle somewhere adding up $35 overdraft fees, $12 in monthly maintenance charges, $87 in returned item fees, and a $700 shortfall from a direct deposit that never cleared. And now, BancFirst wants every penny back — plus, theoretically, court costs and attorney fees, though those aren’t itemized here. But let’s be real: the legal fees for BancFirst’s attorney, David G. Mordy, are almost certainly higher than the debt itself. One hour of attorney time in Oklahoma? Easily $200–$300. This case has probably already cost the bank more to litigate than the amount they’re trying to collect. So is $904.99 a lot? In human terms, yes — it’s rent for a week, groceries for a family, a car repair. But for a bank? It’s pocket lint. It’s the digital equivalent of finding a few cents in the couch cushions and deciding to sue the couch.

So what’s our take? The most absurd part isn’t even that a bank is suing over such a small amount — we’ve seen that before. No, the real comedy lies in the automated dignity of it all. BancFirst didn’t send a letter. Didn’t call. Didn’t send a passive-aggressive postcard with a frowny face. They went straight to court — with a notarized affidavit, a deputy clerk’s stamp, and a full-blown legal summons — over money that, statistically, probably wouldn’t even cover the paper and ink used to print the filing. And then, buried in the fine print like a legal Easter egg, they drop the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act disclaimer: “This is an attempt to collect a debt,” they say, as if we didn’t already know, because apparently, even when you’re a bank suing yourself, you have to cover your legal butt. It’s like a restaurant putting a sign on the door that says “We serve food” — technically true, but also, what else would you be doing here?

We’re not rooting for debt evasion. We’re not saying people should bounce checks willy-nilly and live in a utopia of free money. But there’s something deeply un-American about a system where a bank can spend more to collect a debt than the debt is worth — and still move forward anyway, like a shark that smells blood, even if the blood is in a Band-Aid. And poor Mason Darrell McEvers? We don’t know his side. Maybe he overdrew his account on purpose. Maybe he forgot to cancel a subscription. Maybe he’s just bad with money. But does he deserve to be hauled into court like a criminal because his bank account briefly resembled a sinking ship? Probably not.

At the end of the day, this case isn’t about $904.99. It’s about what happens when corporate policy meets human error — and the machine keeps running even when common sense would say, “Hey, maybe just let this one go.” But no. The summons was issued. The notary stamped. The courtroom clock is ticking. And on April 10, 2026, in Carter County, Oklahoma, justice — or at least, paperwork — will be served.