Ashton Allen LaFrance v. Shank Stephens

Let’s cut right to the chase: a man is suing another man for exactly $9,999—yes, one dollar short of ten grand—because he says he did the masonry work and never got paid. Not $10,000. Not even $9,500. $9,999. It’s the kind of number that feels like a message, like someone scribbling “I know what you owe me” in financial hieroglyphics. This isn’t just about money anymore. This is about pride. This is about honor. This is about who blinks first in the high-stakes, low-margin world of Oklahoma contracting.

Meet Ashton Allen LaFrance, the self-styled mason with a name that sounds like a rejected French perfume brand but who, according to court records, runs LaFrance Masonry out of Fort Worth, Texas. And on the other side of this very dusty battlefield: Shank Stephens, a welder—yes, welder—from Hinton, Oklahoma, whose business, Stephens Welding, apparently dabbled in enough construction-side work to need a mason on call. Now, you might be asking: what’s a mason doing for a welder? And honestly? That’s a great question. Maybe Shank was building a custom forge and needed a stone foundation. Maybe he was restoring an old barn and wanted a fireplace that said “I’m rustic but I care.” Or maybe—just maybe—he hired Ashton to build a literal pedestal to stand on while welding. We don’t know. The filing doesn’t say. But the vibes are strong: this is a clash of tradesmen egos, two dudes who probably wear steel-toed boots to church and measure masculinity in PSI ratings.

So what went down? Well, according to Ashton, he provided masonry services to Shank. That’s it. That’s the whole story—on paper. No details about what the work was, no mention of a written contract, no timeline, no photos of a half-finished stone wall or a suspiciously lopsided chimney. Just a solemn oath under penalty of perjury that: “You did the work. You didn’t get paid. The end.” Ashton says he asked for his money. Shank said, “Nope.” And now, here we are, in the hallowed halls of the Garvin County District Court, where the stakes are $9,999 and the drama is palpable.

The legal claim? Breach of contract. Fancy term, simple idea: one person promised to pay for work, the other person did the work, and then the first person ghosted like it was a bad Tinder date. Now, in most normal human interactions, you’d maybe send a second invoice. Or call. Or show up with a trowel and a passive-aggressive quote from The Godfather. But Ashton went straight for the legal jugular. He filed a petition swearing under oath that Shank owes him nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars for masonry services rendered. And get this—he didn’t even demand a jury trial. He’s like, “I don’t need 12 people to tell me I did the work. I know I did the work. Let the judge handle this like a real adult.”

Now, $9,999—let’s talk about that number. Is it a lot? Is it a little? Well, for a masonry job, it’s not nothing. That’s enough for, say, a full brick patio, a stone retaining wall, or a very fancy chimney rebuild. It’s also just under the $10,000 threshold that might change how the case is handled in some courts. So was this intentional? Did Ashton stop billing at $9,999 so he could stay in small claims-friendly territory? Or was it just how the math shook out? We may never know. But the specificity feels loaded, like a mic drop in spreadsheet form.

And here’s the kicker: Ashton didn’t just ask for money. Buried in that court order is a line that sent shivers down our spine: “You are hereby directed to relinquish immediately to the plaintiff total possession of the real and/or personal property described above…” Except—plot twist—there is no property described above. It’s just blank. Like someone got excited, typed up the form, and forgot to fill in the part about what, exactly, Shank is allegedly hoarding. Is it tools? A wheelbarrow? A haunted trowel passed down from mason ancestors? The court order threatens a writ of assistance, which sounds like something from a medieval siege, but in reality means the sheriff could show up and physically remove Shank from property… if only we knew which property. It’s like a legal version of a Choose Your Own Adventure book where the author forgot to write the ending.

So what does Ashton want? $9,999. A judgment saying Shank broke their deal. And possibly, just possibly, for Shank to admit—out loud, in front of a judge—that he stiffed a fellow tradesman. Because let’s be real: at this point, it’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. It’s about the fact that in the unwritten code of contractors, you pay your people. You don’t leave a mason hanging. That’s how you end up with a foundation that mysteriously cracks six months later. That’s how rumors start. That’s how you get subtly sabotaged in the local contractor group chat.

Our take? Look, we’re not here to take sides. We’re entertainers, not lawyers (and also, not masons or welders or whatever hybrid construction samurai these men are). But the sheer audacity of suing for $9,999—down to the single dollar—has us obsessed. It’s the financial equivalent of leaving one fry on the plate to show you could have eaten more. It’s petty. It’s bold. It’s art. And the fact that this is a mason vs. a welder? Two proud craftsmen, masters of their respective domains, now locked in a legal duel over a number that’s basically screaming “I’M NOT MAD, I’M JUST DISAPPOINTED”?

We’re rooting for the drama. We’re rooting for the story behind the story. We want to know: Was there a handshake deal over cold beers? Did Shank say, “Pay you when it’s done,” and then declare it “done” when it was clearly not? Did Ashton show up to collect and find Shank welding a throne out of rebar and calling it “art”? We need answers. We need depositions. We need a documentary.

But most of all, we need to know: when April 28 rolls around in Pauls Valley, and these two men stand before the court, will Shank pay up? Will he fight it? Or will he show up with a check for $9,999 and a single dollar coin taped to it with a note that says “Enjoy your penny, hero”?

Whatever happens, one thing’s for sure: in the annals of small-time civil disputes, this one’s a stone cold classic.