LVNV Funding LLC v. Nathan Hudlow

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a man in Oklahoma is being sued for $1,800.86—less than the cost of a decent used car down payment—by a company that doesn’t even pretend to be the original lender. This isn’t a dispute over stolen property, a broken promise, or even a messy breakup. No, this is the legal equivalent of a game of telephone gone wrong: someone owes money, someone else says they now own that debt, and now the courts are being asked to settle a financial game of hot potato. And yes, there are seven lawyers listed on the filing. For $1,800.86.

Meet Nathan Hudlow, a regular guy from Le Flore County, Oklahoma, who—like most Americans—once signed up for a credit card. Specifically, a Credit One Bank card, back in December 2020. Credit One, for the uninitiated, is one of those lenders that specializes in people with less-than-perfect credit, offering cards with sky-high interest rates and fees that could make your head spin. It’s the kind of card you get when you’re trying to rebuild your financial life, not when you’re living large. At some point, Nathan missed a payment—or several—and fell into default. That’s not unusual. What happens next, though? That’s where things get weird.

Because Credit One didn’t just send Nathan a stern letter or call him relentlessly (though they probably did that too). No, they did what banks often do: they sold the debt. Not the card. Not the relationship. Just the debt—the number on a spreadsheet—to another company called Credit Asset Sales LLC. Think of it like a repo man for money: instead of chasing Nathan down themselves, Credit One sold the right to collect to someone else for pennies on the dollar. Then, in March 2024, that company bundled Nathan’s debt with hundreds or thousands of others—Portfolio 43322, if you’re into the whole “debt portfolio” aesthetic—and sold the whole package to LVNV Funding LLC. Yes, that’s a real name. No, it doesn’t stand for anything cool. LVNV is a debt-buying company based in Delaware, and they’ve made a business out of purchasing defaulted debts and suing people to collect.

Now, LVNV didn’t lend Nathan a dime. They didn’t assess his credit. They weren’t there when he swiped that card at the gas station or the Walmart or wherever people use Credit One cards. But according to the legal fiction that is modern debt collection, they now own that debt. And they want their money. So on January 28, 2026—yes, the same day the affidavit was notarized—they filed a petition in Le Flore County District Court demanding exactly $1,800.86. That’s not a typo. Eighty-six cents is part of this high-stakes legal battle. The filing includes an “Affidavit of Indebtedness,” signed by one Janet Cortez, who claims to be an “Authorized Representative” of LVNV. She swears, under penalty of perjury, that the records show Nathan owes this amount, that all credits have been applied, and that they’ve already demanded payment (more than 30 days prior, because the rules are very specific about that).

So what exactly are they suing for? In legalese, it’s “indebtedness”—a fancy way of saying “you owe us money and won’t pay.” But let’s break it down: LVNV is asking the court to officially declare that Nathan must pay them $1,800.86. They also want “interest at the statutory rate” (which in Oklahoma is 6% per year unless the original contract says otherwise), plus court costs and a “reasonable attorney’s fee.” Now, here’s the kicker: the law firm representing LVNV—Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C.—has seven attorneys listed on the petition. Seven. For a case that’s not even for two grand. Are they all working on this? Did they draw straws? Is this the legal version of a group project where one person does the work and six others show up for the grade? It’s hard not to wonder how much of that $1,800.86 is going to end up in lawyer pockets.

And let’s talk about that number: $1,800.86. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s practically pocket lint. Most personal injury cases start at five figures. Even small claims court in Oklahoma caps out at $10,000, so this case is well below that. But for an individual? For someone in Le Flore County, where the median household income is around $45,000? Yeah, $1,800 is real money. It’s a month’s rent. It’s a car repair. It’s groceries for half a year. So while this might be a rounding error for a debt collection firm, for Nathan Hudlow, it’s not nothing. And yet, the asymmetry here is staggering: a faceless corporation, represented by a small army of attorneys, chasing down a debt that originated from a bank that no longer cares, using paperwork generated by someone who’s never met Nathan, all to collect less than two grand.

Now, here’s what’s not in the filing: any evidence that Nathan disputes the debt. No counterclaim. No argument that he paid it. No suggestion that there’s a mistake. Just a one-sided petition that reads like a form letter with a name plugged in. That’s how these cases often go—especially when the defendant doesn’t show up. And if Nathan doesn’t respond? The court will likely enter a default judgment, meaning LVNV wins automatically. Then they can garnish wages, freeze bank accounts, or put a lien on property. All for a debt that changed hands like a hot potato through at least three companies.

So what’s our take? The most absurd part isn’t even the seven lawyers. It’s the entire system. We live in a world where debt is treated like a tradable commodity—bought, sold, and litigated like baseball cards—while the people who actually owe it are left scrambling. Nathan Hudlow didn’t sign a contract with LVNV Funding LLC. He didn’t agree to be sued by them. But because of the way debt collection laws work, that doesn’t matter. As long as the paperwork looks right, the courts will usually side with the collector. And while we’re not saying Nathan doesn’t owe the money—he probably does—the idea that this is now a legal showdown between a man and a shell company backed by a law firm with more attorneys than employees at a Waffle House? That’s peak late-stage capitalism. We’re rooting for transparency. We’re rooting for Nathan to at least get a day in court. And we’re definitely rooting for someone to explain why seven lawyers are necessary to collect less than two grand. Maybe they’ll split the attorney’s fee seven ways. Could be $120 each. Worth it? You tell us.

(We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But if you get sued for a debt you don’t recognize, maybe don’t ignore it. And maybe don’t let your credit card debt be sold to Portfolio 43322.)