McClain BANK v. Rhonda J Kissling & Scott D. Kissling

Let’s get this out of the way upfront: a bank is suing a married couple over $831.50. Yes, you read that right—eight hundred thirty-one dollars and fifty cents. Not eight hundred thousand. Not eighty-one. We’re talking about a sum so small it wouldn’t even cover a decent used car down payment, let alone a full tank of gas for a fleet of private jets. And yet, here we are, in McClain County, Oklahoma, where the legal gears are grinding forward with all the drama of a Shakespearean tragedy—except instead of poisoned goblets and star-crossed lovers, we’ve got defaulted accounts and a demand for “possession of property” that sounds like it was lifted from a 19th-century land dispute. Welcome to Crazy Civil Court, where the stakes are low, the tension is high, and someone might get evicted over a car payment that missed the couch by three couch cushions.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got McClain BANK—yes, capitalized like it’s shouting its name at a town hall meeting—with an office in Purcell, Oklahoma, and a filing attorney named Kerry L. Nemeciek, who, for reasons unknown, appears to be representing the bank and sharing the same last name as the institution itself. Coincidence? Probably. But also… kind of suspicious? Like when your landlord says, “The building is owned by Big Sky Holdings LLC,” and then you see “Big Sky Holdings LLC” driving a golf cart around the complex wearing flip-flops and a fanny pack. Anyway, the bank is based in McClain County, which is either a charming small-town detail or a legal jurisdictional necessity—probably both. They’re not just after money; they’re also demanding possession of something. More on that mystery in a sec.

On the other side of this financial feud: Rhonda J. Kissling and Scott D. Kissling, a married couple who, until this lawsuit, were probably just trying to live their best Oklahoma lives—grilling out, watching OU football, maybe debating whether to get satellite radio. They had an account with McClain BANK—Account #75096/44, to be exact—and according to the filing, they defaulted on it. That’s lawyer-speak for “they didn’t pay what they were supposed to.” The amount? Again, $831.50. For context, that’s roughly the cost of: - Two iPhones (if you buy them used and don’t upgrade the storage), - A one-way flight from Oklahoma City to Denver (if you book early and don’t check a bag), - Or, more realistically, several months of car insurance for a 2008 Camry with 180,000 miles on it.

But instead of paying it, the Kisslings allegedly didn’t. The bank says it asked for payment. The Kisslings, according to the complaint, “refused to pay.” And now, here we are—summoned to court, with the threat of a writ of assistance (which sounds like a medieval decree but is actually a court order allowing law enforcement to seize property or evict someone).

Now, the real mystery in this case isn’t the debt. It’s the property. The filing claims the defendants are “wrongfully in possession of certain real and/or personal property” and that the bank wants it back. But here’s the thing: the document doesn’t say what that property is. No description. No VIN number. No address. Just a blank space where you’d expect details, like a Mad Libs form left unfinished. Is it a car? A tractor? A timeshare in Branson? A haunted corn crib? We don’t know. All we know is that the bank wants it, the Kisslings allegedly have it, and the court is being asked to either make them give it up or explain why they should keep it.

This is where things get legally spicy. The claims? Debt collection and possession. That’s it. No fraud. No embezzlement. No dramatic betrayal. Just a straightforward “you owe us money, and you’re holding something that belongs to us.” In plain English: McClain BANK is saying, “Hey, you didn’t pay your bill, and you’re still using our stuff. Hand it over or explain yourself in court.” It’s like when your cousin borrows your lawnmower and then stops answering texts—except scaled up to court-level hostility and involving a financial institution.

And what do they want? $831.50, plus “costs and fees,” which could mean filing fees, legal costs, maybe even the price of the ink used to print the complaint. They also want possession of that mysterious property. Is $831.50 a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, no. It’s pocket change. Most people have that much in loose bills stuffed between couch cushions, old glove compartments, and forgotten coffee mugs. But in the world of small banks and rural lending, this kind of debt might be worth chasing—especially if it’s tied to collateral. If this was a car loan, for example, and the Kisslings still have the vehicle, then yeah, the bank wants it back. But if this is just an unsecured personal loan? Then we’re looking at a bank spending legal time, court resources, and taxpayer-funded court staff hours to recover less than a grand. That’s like sending a SWAT team to retrieve a Netflix DVD.

The hearing was set for April 10, 2021, at 1:30 p.m. in the Purcell County Courthouse—second floor, presumably where all the drama happens. The Kisslings were ordered to show up with “all books, papers, and witnesses” if they wanted to fight the claim. Or, if they weren’t contesting the property part, to just hand it over immediately. Failure to appear? Automatic judgment. The court would side with the bank, award the money, and possibly send the sheriff to repossess whatever mysterious asset is at the center of this saga. A writ of assistance would issue—basically a legal eviction or seizure order—and the sheriff would “forthwith” (legal code for “right the heck now”) take possession.

Now, our take: the most absurd part of this case isn’t the amount. It’s the vagueness. A bank is going to court, invoking the full power of the judicial system, and can’t even be bothered to say what property they’re after? That’s like calling the police because someone stole your bike, but when they ask what it looks like, you say, “Uh, it’s a vehicle with wheels. Maybe blue?” In a world where banks routinely send 47-page disclosures just to change your mailing address, this level of detail feels almost comically lazy. Did they forget to fill in the blank? Was it redacted? Or is this some kind of test to see if the court will rubber-stamp demands without scrutiny?

And honestly? We’re rooting for the Kisslings. Not because we think they’re innocent—remember, these are allegations—but because this feels like corporate overreach on a shoestring budget. If the bank wants its collateral back, fine. Show us the contract. Name the asset. Prove the default. But don’t come into court with half a story and expect the system to do your paperwork for you. Also, if this is about a lawnmower, the Kisslings should just return the lawnmower. Nobody wins a civil war over garden equipment.

At the end of the day, this case is a perfect microcosm of how the legal system sometimes treats small-dollar disputes like high-stakes battles. Emotions run high. Procedures get followed to the letter. And somewhere, a deputy clerk named Karen Watner is typing up orders involving sheriff-led property seizures… over less than a thousand bucks. It’s equal parts hilarious, tragic, and deeply American.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But if we were advising the Kisslings? Pay the $831.50, return the mystery property (whatever it is), and maybe consider switching banks. Because if your financial institution is willing to drag you to court over this, they’re probably the type to charge you $5 for using an out-of-network ATM—then sue you if you complain on Facebook.