Tower Loans v. Tyler Dehart

Let’s cut right to the chase: in a world where people sue over cactus theft, backyard chicken coups gone rogue, and haunted houses, Oklahoma may have just served up the most dramatically underwhelming civil showdown of the decade—because yes, someone is officially in court over $752.24… and some mystery personal property that might be a lawnmower, a PlayStation, or, for all we know, a haunted ukulele. Welcome to the Canadian County Courthouse, where the stakes are low, the paperwork is high, and the drama is strictly installment-loan-sized.

Meet Tower Loans, a payday lending outfit based in El Reno, Oklahoma, the kind of place where you walk in needing $300 for car repairs and walk out owing $800 and your firstborn’s future birthday presents. They’re the plaintiff here—basically the financial equivalent of that one friend who lent you $20 “no rush” and then slides into your DMs every time you post a vacation pic. On the other side of this legal showdown is Tyler Dehart of Union City, Oklahoma, a man whose current claim to fame is allegedly not paying back a short-term loan and, more curiously, still having some stuff that Tower Loans really, really wants back. Their relationship? It started, like so many modern romances, with a contract, a signature, and a promise that one day, money would change hands. Unfortunately for everyone involved, that day has not yet come.

So what went down? Well, according to the affidavit filed by Morgan Sullivan—listed as both the affiant and the representative for Tower Loans—Tyler Dehart took out an installment loan from the company. Now, installment loans aren’t inherently evil. In theory, they’re supposed to be more manageable than the “borrow $100, pay back $150 in two weeks” kind of payday loan that makes you want to sell plasma every other Tuesday. But somewhere along the line, Tyler allegedly stopped making payments. The balance? A cool $752.24. That’s not chump change, sure—roughly the cost of a decent laptop or three months of a surprisingly luxurious gym membership—but it’s also not “sell the house and flee the country” money. Tower Loans says they asked nicely for repayment. Tyler, according to the filing, responded with the legal equivalent of radio silence: no payment, no explanation, just… nothing. Classic.

But here’s where things get weird. Buried in the affidavit like a plot twist in a straight-to-DVD courtroom thriller is this gem: Tower Loans also claims Tyler is “wrongfully in possession” of certain personal property. Now, hold on. This isn’t a car repossession case. Tower Loans isn’t a car dealership. So what, exactly, is Tyler holding hostage? A signed promissory note? A framed photo of the CEO? A novelty mug that says “I ♥ Short-Term Interest Rates”? The affidavit literally leaves the description blank. The value? Also blank. It’s like they forgot to fill out half the form, or maybe they’re saving the big reveal for trial—“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the item in question… is a George Foreman grill… with five removable plates.” We may never know. But the implication is clear: Tower Loans believes Tyler has something that belongs to them, and they want it back badly enough to demand injunctive relief—a legal term that basically means “make this guy give us our stuff” — in addition to the cash.

So why are we in court? Let’s break it down like we’re explaining it to a very confused barista. Tower Loans is making two main arguments. First, breach of contract—a fancy way of saying, “He signed a deal to pay us back, and he didn’t.” That’s the $752.24 claim. Second, they’re saying Tyler is unlawfully holding onto property that should be returned, which opens the door to the court ordering him to hand it over. This isn’t about punishment—it’s about recovery. They’re not asking for punitive damages (no “teach him a lesson” money), just the original debt plus whatever this mystery item is. And yes, they’re also angling for court costs and attorney fees, because nothing says “I’ve been wronged” quite like making the other side pay for your lawyer’s coffee runs.

Now, is $752.24 a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s practically pocket lint. People have gone to court over parking spots worth less. But here’s the thing: this isn’t small claims court. This is District Court in Canadian County, which means the process is more formal, more time-consuming, and frankly, a bit of an overkill for what amounts to less than a grand. Tower Loans could’ve filed in small claims, saved everyone the hassle, maybe settled it over a handshake and a gas station soda. But no. They went full affidavit, demanded a court date (April 20, 2026—mark your calendars, true crime stans), and invoked the full power of the state to recover their cash and their… whatever-it-is. Is the property worth more than the loan? We don’t know. Is it collateral? Possibly. But the fact that it’s not even described suggests either an oversight, a strategic omission, or a deeply confusing internal inventory system at Tower Loans.

And then there’s the question of representation. Neither side has a lawyer listed—Morgan Sullivan is signing as the plaintiff/affiant, which means they’re representing the company themselves. That’s not uncommon in debt collection cases, but it does add a certain DIY charm to the whole affair. It’s like watching a corporate entity try to play both judge and jury, but also defendant, but also… plaintiff? Honestly, it’s giving community theater.

So what’s our take? Look, debt is serious. People need to pay their bills. But there’s something deeply absurd about a company filing a formal court action over less than $800 while simultaneously failing to specify what property they’re allegedly missing. It’s like calling the cops because your AirPods are missing and then saying, “I don’t know what they look like, but I know they’re mine.” Are we rooting for Tyler? Not exactly. Are we rooting for the mystery property to turn out to be something gloriously ridiculous, like a signed 2012 Justin Bieber poster or a lifetime supply of off-brand protein bars? Absolutely. Because at the end of the day, this case isn’t about justice. It’s about a paperwork war over pocket change and a blank line that could’ve been filled with anything—sentimental value, collateral, or just someone’s forgotten gym bag.

And if April 20, 2026, rolls around and the big reveal is that the disputed property is a slightly used space heater from 2018… well, we’ll be first in line to report it. Because in the world of petty civil disputes, sometimes the smallest stakes make the juiciest drama. We’re entertainers, not lawyers—but if this case doesn’t get a spin-off podcast called Where’s the Heater?, the justice system has failed us all.