Stigler Milling Co., LLC v. ED Stricklin DBA Stricklin Construction Inc.

Let’s cut right to the chase: a man who runs a construction company in rural Oklahoma allegedly owes a milling business less than seven grand for rented equipment, and instead of paying it—like, say, with a check, a Venmo, or even a solemn handshake and a sack of potatoes—he’s apparently decided the best move is to ghost them entirely and hope the problem evaporates like morning fog over the Kiamichi River. Spoiler: it did not. Welcome, folks, to the legal equivalent of a backyard feud that’s now playing out in the hallowed (and probably slightly dusty) halls of the Haskell County District Court.

Now, let’s meet our cast of characters. On one side, we’ve got Stigler Milling Co., LLC—a business with a name that sounds like it should be run by a man in overalls with a tobacco tin in his back pocket, which, honestly, might not be far off. Based in the teeny-tiny town of Stigler, Oklahoma (population: roughly “you know your neighbor’s goat by name”), this company apparently dabbles in milling, but also, apparently, in renting out industrial equipment. And not just any equipment—bottling gear. Yes, you heard that right. We’re talking about bottle leases, which, in a town like Stigler, could mean anything from soda bottling machines to, let’s be real, moonshine operation accessories. We’re not accusing anyone of bootlegging, but if you’re leasing bottle equipment in southeastern Oklahoma, you’re at least adjacent to the lore.

On the other side of this high-stakes showdown? ED Stricklin, doing business as Stricklin Construction Inc.—a name that sounds like it belongs on the side of a rusted-out F-150 with a trailer full of questionable lumber. Stricklin, according to court records, operates out of a P.O. box in McAlester, which is basically the regional hub if you’re trying to avoid actual civilization. His business, as the name suggests, is construction. Which raises a fun question: what in tarnation does a construction guy need with bottle-leasing equipment? Is Stricklin branching out into craft beverages? Building a microbrewery between framing houses? Or—record scratch—is it possible that “bottle leases” here refers to compressed gas cylinders? (Welding tanks, propane, that sort of thing?) Because if that’s the case, then yes, a contractor would absolutely need those. And we’ve just spent the last paragraph imagining a moonshining construction mogul for nothing. Damn.

But let’s not get distracted by the romantic notion of a renegade builder distilling hooch in his spare time. The facts, such as they are, are these: at some point, Stricklin—or his company—took possession of rental equipment from Stigler Milling. The nature of the gear is still a little hazy, but the cost is not: $6,888.83. That’s not chump change, but in the world of construction debt, it’s not exactly a bankruptcy-level crisis either. For context, that’s about what you’d pay for a decent used excavator—or, more relevantly, several months’ worth of diesel for one. So we’re not talking about a single toolbox here. This was a serious rental.

Stigler Milling, being the responsible small business it is, sent the bill. Then, when no payment came, they followed up. And when that didn’t work, they did the only logical thing: filed a sworn affidavit with the court, like frontier justice but with notaries. The document is as no-nonsense as a Baptist sermon: “The defendant is indebted… the plaintiff has demanded payment… the defendant refused.” No drama, no embellishment. Just cold, hard, paper-trail truth. And honestly? Respect.

So why are we in court? Because in civil litigation land, when someone owes you money and won’t pay, you can’t just show up at their door with a posse and a wheelbarrow. You have to sue. And that’s exactly what Stigler Milling did—filing a debt collection claim, which is the legal way of saying, “Hey, this guy owes us cash, and we’d like the state to help us collect it before we have to start selling raffle tickets to cover the loss.” The claim is straightforward: pay up the $6,888.83, plus court costs and any fees allowed by law. There’s no demand for punitive damages, no wild allegations of fraud or sabotage. Just: “We gave you stuff. You didn’t pay. Now the court’s involved.”

And what does Stigler Milling want? Well, $6,888.83. Let’s put that in perspective. For a small business in Haskell County, where the median household income is around $45,000, nearly seven grand is a real hit. That’s payroll for a couple of employees, or a year’s worth of insurance on a work truck, or—let’s be honest—the entire annual budget for office snacks and toilet paper. It’s not a fortune, but it’s not nothing. And when you’re a local operation, every dollar counts. Especially when someone’s using your equipment and then pretending the bill doesn’t exist.

Now, here’s where things get deliciously petty. The court order says Stricklin has to show up on March 16, 2026—just ten days after the filing—to answer the claim, bringing “all books, papers and witnesses” needed to defend himself. Which begs the question: what defense does he plan to mount? That he didn’t rent the equipment? That it was damaged upon return? That he paid in trade (a load of gravel and a six-pack of Bud Light)? Or is this just a case of a contractor who’s stretched too thin, bouncing checks like a pro at a Chuck E. Cheese? We don’t know—because Stricklin hasn’t said a word in the filing. He’s a ghost. A debtor-shaped silhouette in the Oklahoma wind.

And that’s the most absurd part: this isn’t some corporate titan dodging millions. This is a local businessman—probably someone who waves at the same people every morning at the Waffle House—being called out for stiffing a neighbor over less than seven grand. In a small town, reputation is everything. You don’t burn bridges like this unless you’re either broke, bold, or just really bad at math. And yet, here we are.

Look, we’re not here to crucify a guy who might just be down on his luck. Construction is a brutal business—weather delays, material costs, clients who vanish after the foundation’s poured. Maybe Stricklin’s got his own sob story. Maybe he’ll show up in court with receipts, a sob, and a check written in chicken-scratch handwriting. And hey, we’d root for that. Redemption arcs are always good TV.

But until then, we’re rooting for Stigler Milling. Not because they’re saints, but because they’re playing by the rules. They provided a service. They asked nicely. They waited. And when that didn’t work, they brought the matter to the people’s court—where justice, in Haskell County, costs $6,888.83, plus filing fees. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of public embarrassment.

Because let’s be real: in a town where everyone knows everyone, the real punishment here isn’t the judgment. It’s having your name on a court document that gets read aloud by the deputy clerk while your cousin’s wife’s hairdresser’s nephew is sitting in the back row. In rural Oklahoma, debt isn’t just about money. It’s about face. And right now, ED Stricklin’s is looking a little red.