Red River Credit Corp. v. David McFadzen

Let’s cut right to the chase: a debt collector is suing a man in Oklahoma for $1,974.74—yes, down to the penny—and also wants some mysterious, completely unspecified piece of personal property back. Not a car, not a laptop, not even a slightly chewed-up recliner. Just… something. The description is so blank it might as well be a Mad Lib. “Wrongfully in possession of certain personal property described as ____________________________________________.” That line is basically the legal equivalent of “I lost my keys and I think Dave has them.” And now, the court is involved. This isn’t Law & Order: SVU. This is Law & Order: Slightly Annoyed with a Side of Paperwork.

So who are we even talking about here? On one side, we’ve got Red River Credit Corp., which sounds like the name of a villainous corporation from a 1980s dystopian movie where people are literally paid in debt. In reality, it’s just a small credit company based in Shawnee, Oklahoma—population: about 30,000, and probably at least three people named “Cletus.” They specialize in, well, extending credit and then, when that doesn’t work out, filing small claims affidavits like this one. They’re not represented by a lawyer, which tells you two things: either they’re trying to keep costs low, or they’re so used to winning these cases they don’t need one. Maybe both. On the other side is David McFadzen, a man whose only known crime, according to this document, is existing while allegedly owing money and possessing—brace yourself—an object.

Now, let’s talk about what actually went down. Or, more accurately, what allegedly went down, because this is just one side of the story, filed by the plaintiff. According to Traci Mathis—listed as the affiant, which means she’s the one swearing under oath that this is all true—David McFadzen took out a loan from Red River Credit Corp. and then, in a shocking twist, failed to pay it back. Cue the dramatic music. The total amount owed? $1,974.74. That’s not a round number. That’s not “about two grand.” That’s one thousand nine hundred seventy-four dollars and seventy-four cents. Someone somewhere ran a very precise calculator and decided, yes, this man owes us exactly that much, down to the cost of a large iced coffee at Starbucks. The loan was apparently either signed or meant to be paid in Pottawatomie County, which gives the court jurisdiction, and Red River says they asked for the money. McFadzen, they claim, said “nah,” and hasn’t paid a dime. Classic.

But here’s where it gets weird. Buried in the middle of this otherwise boilerplate debt collection form is a sentence that feels like it wandered in from a different lawsuit: “The defendant is wrongfully in possession of certain personal property… that the plaintiff is entitled to possession thereof…” Except—get this—there’s no description of what that property is. It’s just blank. Not a make, not a model, not a serial number, not even “a gold necklace with a tiny dolphin pendant that my grandmother gave me.” Nothing. It’s like the legal version of a ransom note that says, “Give me back my stuff or else.” What stuff? We don’t know! The court doesn’t know! David McFadzen might not even know! Maybe it’s a lawn mower. Maybe it’s a signed photo of Toby Keith. Maybe it’s a slightly used bidet. The affidavit doesn’t say. All we know is that Red River wants it back, and they’re using the full power of the Pottawatomie County District Court to get it.

Why are they in court? Let’s break it down like we’re explaining it to a very tired barista. This is a small claim, which in Oklahoma generally means the amount in dispute is under $10,000. These cases are designed to be simple, fast, and accessible—no fancy lawyers required, just a form, a filing fee, and a willingness to show up and argue about money in a room that probably smells like old carpet and regret. Red River is claiming two things: first, that McFadzen owes them $1,974.74 due to a loan default (meaning he didn’t repay the loan as agreed), and second, that he’s holding onto some piece of property that belongs to them. Legally, this could mean a few things. Maybe the loan was secured by collateral—like a car or a tool collection—and McFadzen still has it. Or maybe Red River is just really bad at filling out forms and forgot to write in the item. Either way, they’re asking the court to force McFadzen to pay up and give back the mystery object.

Now, let’s talk about what they want. Red River is asking for $1,974.74—which, in the grand scheme of debt collection lawsuits, is not a fortune. It’s less than a monthly car payment on a slightly used Subaru. It’s about the cost of a decent used motorcycle, or a really good vacuum cleaner and a year’s supply of protein bars. But for someone living paycheck to paycheck in rural Oklahoma, nearly two grand is not nothing. It’s rent. It’s groceries. It’s a whole lot of propane for your heater in winter. So while this might seem like a “small” claim, it’s still a significant amount for the average person. On top of that, they want the return of the property—whatever it is—and they’re also entitled to court costs if they win. Notably, they’re not asking for punitive damages (which would be extra money to punish McFadzen), and they’ve waived their right to a jury trial, which suggests they’re confident this will be a quick, no-drama win in front of a judge.

And now, our take: the most absurd part of this whole thing isn’t the debt. It’s not even the fact that a corporation is suing over less than $2,000. No, the real comedy gold is that nobody knows what property they’re fighting over. It’s like showing up to a custody battle and forgetting to mention which child you’re fighting for. How is David supposed to defend himself? “Your honor, I do not have your slightly dented toaster oven!” “But which one? The silver one or the one with the burn mark from when we tried to make frozen pizza without defrosting it first?” This isn’t just a paperwork error—it’s a plot hole in a legal document. It makes you wonder: did someone just copy-paste a form and forget to fill in the blank? Did they assume the court would just know what they meant? Or is this some kind of psychological warfare—“We know what you took. You know what you took. Hand it over.”

We’re not rooting for the debt collector. We’re not even really rooting for David—unless he’s being framed by a rogue toaster oven. But we are rooting for answers. We want to know what that blank line is hiding. Was it a chainsaw? A ukulele? A signed copy of the Twilight screenplay? Until we get that detail, this case will remain one of the great unsolved mysteries of Pottawatomie County—right up there with “Who keeps stealing the doughnuts from the courthouse break room?”

One thing’s for sure: on April 1, 2026, at 9:00 a.m., in Courtroom No. 3 in Shawnee, Oklahoma, someone is going to have to explain what, exactly, they want back. And if they can’t? Well, that might be the first time in legal history a plaintiff lost because they forgot to name the thing they were suing for. And honestly? That would be poetic justice.