Tower Loans v. Tyrann Goins

Let’s be honest: we’ve all gotten a little too invested in a $5 coffee shop charge we didn’t authorize. But only in America, and only in small claims court, does someone get served a legal summons for $123.24 like they’re the final boss in a debt-based courtroom drama. Tower Loans — yes, that’s a real company, and no, they’re not a villain in a payday loan horror film — has dragged Tyrann Goins into the legal ring over a loan so small it wouldn’t even cover a single tank of gas in 2026. And yet, here we are, parsing sworn affidavits and county courthouse logistics for a dispute that could’ve been settled with a Venmo request and a mildly passive-aggressive text.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Tower Loans, a business with a name that sounds like a rejected Transformers character, operating out of Broken Arrow, Oklahoma — which, for the uninitiated, is basically Tulsa’s slightly more suburban cousin who still thinks mullets are a personality trait. Tower Loans appears to specialize in short-term, small-dollar lending, the kind of operation where you sign up for a quick cash advance and end up owing more in fees than you borrowed. They’re not exactly Warren Buffett, but in this case, they’re playing the role of the aggrieved party, armed with an affidavit and a sense of righteous financial indignation. On the other side is Tyrann Goins, a private individual living in Coweta, Oklahoma — not exactly a millionaire mastermind of financial evasion, just a guy who, according to the filing, borrowed a small sum and… didn’t pay it back. That’s it. That’s the crime. No embezzlement. No identity theft. Just a man, a loan, and a refusal to settle up.

Now, let’s walk through the timeline of this financial thriller. On April 22, 2005 — yes, that’s 2005, back when MySpace was still cool and flip phones were peak technology — Tyrann Goins allegedly took out a loan from Tower Loans. The exact terms aren’t spelled out in the filing, but given the context, this was likely one of those short-term installment deals: borrow a little now, pay it back with interest later. Fast-forward almost a full year, and here we are in March 2006. Tower Loans claims Goins still owes them $123.24. That’s not a typo. One hundred and twenty-three dollars and twenty-four cents. For context, that’s less than the average American spends on takeout in a week. It’s the price of a slightly overpriced Bluetooth speaker from Amazon. It’s the amount you’d find under your car seat if you finally cleaned it out. But Tower Loans isn’t letting it slide. They sent a demand. Goins, according to the affidavit, refused to pay. No explanation. No counteroffer. Just… radio silence. And so, like a financial detective with too much time on their hands, Tower Loans filed a claim in the Small Claims Division of Wagoner County District Court — because apparently, dignity and proportionality are not part of the legal code.

Now, why are they in court? Legally speaking, Tower Loans is suing under the category of “open account, note, or other instrument of indebtedness.” In plain English: they’re saying, “We gave him money under a written agreement, and he hasn’t paid it back.” That’s the entire case. No breach of contract drama. No allegations of fraud. Just a straightforward “you borrowed, you didn’t repay, now we want our cash.” And because this is small claims court, the rules are simplified — no fancy lawyers needed (and indeed, neither side appears to be represented), no complex motions, just a judge, two parties, and a stack of receipts, if anyone brought any. The venue? Wagoner County. Why? Because either Goins lives there (his listed address is in Coweta, which is technically in Wagoner County — fun fact: county lines are weird), or the loan was signed there. Either way, the court says it’s fair game.

So what does Tower Loans want? $123.24. Plus “costs,” which in small claims court usually means filing fees, service of process, and maybe a few stamps. We’re not talking about a windfall. We’re not even talking about enough to cover a decent dinner for two. But here’s the kicker: the hearing is set for March 24, 2026. Yes, twenty years after the loan was allegedly taken out. Twenty years. That’s longer than some marriages last. That’s enough time for a child born in 2006 to now be old enough to file their own small claims lawsuit. Is the debt still legally collectible? That’s a great question — and one that probably hinges on Oklahoma’s statute of limitations for debt collection, which is typically five years for written contracts. So unless Tower Loans has been renewing this claim every few years (which happens — debt collectors do this), they might be chasing a ghost. But hey, if you’re going to be petty, you might as well be epically petty.

And that brings us to our take. The most absurd part of this case isn’t the amount. It’s not even the two-decade gap. It’s the sheer audacity of treating $123 like it’s the missing piece of a financial empire. Imagine showing up to court in 2026, dressed your best, maybe even practiced your argument in the mirror, all to fight over a debt so small it wouldn’t cover the parking fee at a real courthouse. Is this justice? Or is this bureaucracy on fumes? Tower Loans could’ve written this off. They could’ve sent it to collections, sure, but even collections agencies usually laugh at sub-$200 debts. Instead, they chose the path of maximum inconvenience — for themselves, for the court, for Tyrann Goins, who probably forgot this loan existed around 2007, when the iPhone came out and everyone collectively moved on.

Are we rooting for Tyrann Goins? Honestly, yes. Not because he’s innocent — we don’t know that — but because this feels like corporate stubbornness masquerading as principle. If you’re going to spend court resources, staff time, and judicial bandwidth, maybe save it for something that matters — like someone stealing your lawn gnome collection or refusing to return your borrowed pressure washer. This? This is just sad. It’s the legal equivalent of leaving a one-star review because your coffee was 0.5 degrees too cold.

But hey, that’s small claims court. Where the stakes are low, the drama is high, and sometimes, justice really does come down to twelve bucks and some loose change.