Terry Sims v. Steve Alls & AJ Hickman

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a man is suing himself. Well, not literally—but if you squint, it kind of looks like Terry Sims is locked in a full-on legal civil war with… Terry Sims. Because unless Steve Alls and AJ Hickman are secret alter egos he’s been hiding from the court (and us), this case is less Breaking Bad and more Curb Your Tenancy, starring one very confused landlord who may have accidentally invented his own tenants.

Terry Sims, a self-represented individual who clearly believes the legal system runs better when you do it yourself (and also save on lawyer fees), filed a petition in the District Court of Cherokee County, Oklahoma, claiming that two people—Steve Alls and AJ Hickman—are squatting in his three-bedroom, two-bath house on E. 590 Road in Locust Grove. He wants them out. He wants $2,400 in unpaid rent. And he wants the court to officially declare that, yes, this house belongs to him, not these mystery men who may or may not exist. Except—here’s the twist—there’s no lease. No mention of when the tenancy started. No proof of payment history. No indication that Steve Alls and AJ Hickman have ever been served, responded, or even acknowledged this lawsuit. It’s like they were summoned from the legal ether.

Now, who are these guys? According to the filing, they’re listed as a “business” entity—which is already suspicious because “Steve Alls & AJ Hickman” sounds less like a LLC and more like a folk duo that plays harmonica covers at county fairs. There’s no attorney representing them. No address beyond the property in question. No indication they’ve ever filed paperwork, paid taxes, or even existed outside of this single document. Are they real people? Are they code names? Are they Terry Sims’ imaginary friends who stopped paying rent in his head? The court doesn’t say. But what we do know is that Terry Sims is very certain they owe him money and won’t leave his house.

So what happened? Well, according to Terry, these two gentlemen moved into his house, agreed to pay rent (amount unspecified, timing unspecified), and then… stopped. He claims they owe $2,400 in back rent and an unspecified amount for damages to the premises—though, curiously, the damage line in the petition is left blank, like he got distracted mid-form and forgot to fill it in. He says he demanded payment. He says he demanded they vacate. They refused. At least, that’s what he says they did. But since they haven’t shown up to defend themselves, it’s all one-sided—like a breakup letter written entirely by the person who brought the popcorn.

Now, here’s where Oklahoma landlord-tenant law kicks in like a cowboy boot to the face. In most states, if you’re a landlord and your tenant stops paying, you can’t just change the locks or toss their stuff on the lawn. You have to follow the eviction process—serve notice, file a petition, get a court date, and let a judge decide. And that’s exactly what Terry is attempting to do, albeit solo. His legal claim? “Eviction/possession” and recovery of rent and damages. In plain English: “These guys are living in my house, not paying, and I want them gone and my money now.” It’s not complicated. It’s not nuanced. It’s the legal equivalent of “Get out of my yard.”

But here’s the kicker: the relief Terry is seeking includes injunctive relief, which means he wants the court to order the defendants to do (or stop doing) something immediately—in this case, vacate the property. That’s standard in eviction cases. But he’s also asking for $2,400 in monetary damages. Is that a lot? For a month-to-month rental in rural Cherokee County? Maybe not. For a three-bedroom house, that’s only $600 per month—cheaper than a studio in Tulsa. But here’s the thing: we don’t know what the agreed-upon rent was. We don’t know how long they’ve lived there. We don’t know if there was a lease. We don’t even know if Steve Alls and AJ Hickman are real people who signed anything. For all we know, this could be Terry’s cousin’s friend’s brother who crashed on the couch for six months and never paid a dime. Or—dare we say it—this could be Terry’s way of legally reclaiming his own property from… himself.

Because let’s talk logistics. Terry Sims is both the plaintiff and the person issuing the summons. He’s the accuser, the notary, and the self-appointed attorney. He’s listed as his own representative. He signed the affidavit. He filled out the form. He’s the one demanding the sheriff remove these men from his house. But if Steve Alls and AJ Hickman don’t respond—and with no attorney and no appearance, they probably won’t—then Terry wins by default. The court will likely grant him possession, award the $2,400, and issue a writ of assistance so the sheriff can legally kick them out. But who exactly are they kicking out? Is someone actually living there? Is the house occupied? Is this a dispute over a family member who won’t leave? Or is this a paperwork purge—a way for Terry to clear the title, remove a ghost tenancy, or resolve a dispute that never should’ve gone to court?

And that brings us to the most absurd part of this whole saga: the sheer loneliness of it all. This isn’t a battle between two parties. It’s one man shouting into the legal void, demanding justice from phantoms. It’s like watching someone play chess against themselves and then sue their black pieces for cheating. Where are the witnesses? Where’s the lease? Where’s the proof that Steve Alls ever bought a gallon of milk or AJ Hickman ever mowed the lawn? We don’t even know if “Steve Alls” is a real name or a pun on “steal.” (We’re not ruling it out.)

But here’s what we are rooting for: clarity. We want to know if this house is haunted by deadbeat tenants or just by bureaucratic ghosts. We want to know if Terry Sims is a wronged landlord or a man having a very public conversation with himself. We want to know if Steve Alls and AJ Hickman show up on the 18th of March, dusty boots and harmonicas in hand, ready to defend their right to live in a house that may or may not have ever been rented to them.

Until then, this case remains a masterpiece of rural legal theater—a $2,400 drama with no cast, no script, and one very determined solo performer. And honestly? We’re here for it. Bring on the courtroom showdown. Bring on the sheriff’s writ. Bring on the three-bedroom mystery. Just don’t forget the popcorn. This one’s got “local legend” written all over it.