LVNV Funding LLC v. Michael Titus

Let’s be real: someone just got sued for $917.65 — less than a decent used laptop — and an entire legal machine roared to life in Creek County, Oklahoma, complete with notarized affidavits, corporate lineage tracing, and a law firm that sounds like it belongs in a 1950s noir film. We’re not talking about embezzlement, fraud, or even a dramatic unpaid bar tab. No, this is peak American capitalism: a debt collector suing a man for a credit card balance so small it could’ve been settled with three Amazon returns and a gift card trade on Reddit.

Meet Michael Titus, the defendant in this saga, a regular guy whose name appears exactly once in this filing — right there in the caption, sandwiched between “vs.” and “IN THE DISTRICT COURT.” We don’t know what he does for a living, whether he’s got a dog named Buddy, or if he remembers ever opening the credit card at the heart of this drama. But we do know this: back on May 18, 2020 — right in the middle of global lockdowns, sourdough starters, and Zoom weddings — Michael Titus was extended credit by Credit One Bank, N.A., on an account ending in 4125. What he bought? Who knows. Maybe it was groceries during the toilet paper famine. Maybe it was a Peloton he never assembled. Maybe it was one of those cursed “subscribe and save” buttons that charge you every month for dog shampoo you don’t need. The court doesn’t say. But what we do know is that at some point, Michael stopped paying. He defaulted. And in the grand tradition of American finance, that debt didn’t just vanish. Oh no. It went on a journey.

First, Credit One Bank got tired of waiting. So they sold the debt — probably for pennies on the dollar — to a company called Credit Asset Sales LLC, which sounds like a firm that specializes in quietly buying up sadness and spreadsheets. Then, on December 16, 2022 — a cold winter day when most of us were worrying about holiday travel or whether the new Star Wars show was worth watching — that debt was bundled into something called Portfolio 41120 (sounds like a spy mission, but was likely just a spreadsheet with 10,000 other delinquent accounts) and sold again — this time to LVNV Funding LLC. That’s our plaintiff. LVNV doesn’t make products. It doesn’t sell services. Its entire business model is buying old debts and suing people for them. It’s the legal equivalent of a vulture, but with better dental and a notary stamp.

Now, LVNV didn’t come knocking with a clipboard and a stern look. No, they brought the full weight of the Creek County judicial system. On November 13, 2025 — yes, the future, if you’re reading this before then — attorney William L. Nixon, Jr. (of the delightfully old-timey firm Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C.) filed a Petition for Indebtedness against Michael Titus. The claim? That Michael owes $917.65. That’s it. Not $10,000. Not even $2,000. Nine hundred seventeen dollars and sixty-five cents. For context, that’s about what you’d spend on a mid-tier smartphone, two months of Netflix and Hulu, or a single night in a decent hotel in Tulsa. And yet, here we are, with lawyers drafting legal documents, notaries logging in remotely via SIGNIX®, and a judge potentially being asked to rule on whether Michael Titus must pay.

The legal claim is as dry as it gets: “Petition for Indebtedness.” In plain English? “Hey, this guy borrowed money. He didn’t pay it back. Now we own that debt, and we want the court to force him to pay us.” There’s no accusation of fraud, no claim that Michael maxed out the card and fled the country. Just a cold, hard assertion: the money is owed, the debt was legally transferred, and the plaintiff wants judgment from the court. They’re asking for the $917.65, plus interest (at whatever the state of Oklahoma says is fair), court costs, and — here’s the kicker — a “reasonable attorney’s fee.” Which is wild, because the amount they’re suing for is less than what many lawyers charge for an hour of work. If William L. Nixon, Jr. spent more than two hours on this case, LVNV is already losing money. Unless, of course, they file 50 of these a week — which, let’s be honest, they probably do.

So what do they want? $917.65. And while that might not sound like much, for someone living paycheck to paycheck — and let’s face it, if you’re being sued by a debt buyer, you’re probably not swimming in cash — that’s still a hit. It’s car repairs. It’s a month of electric bills. It’s a chunk of rent. But here’s the absurd part: LVNV isn’t asking for punitive damages. They’re not demanding Michael apologize in writing or attend a financial literacy seminar. They’re not even asking for more than the balance. They just want the money. And they’re willing to spend legal fees, notary services, and court resources to get it.

Now, let’s talk about the real story here. Because buried beneath the legalese and corporate transfers is a system that feels more like a glitch in the Matrix than actual justice. A man defaults on a credit card. The bank sells the debt. The debt gets resold. Then someone — a company with no prior relationship to Michael — sues him in court, armed with an affidavit from someone named Rebekah Odaniel, who swears under penalty of perjury that, based on “business records,” the debt is valid. But did she ever see the original contract? Did she talk to Michael? No. She’s just reading data that was handed to her. And yet, that’s enough to file a lawsuit.

And here’s the kicker: Michael might not even know about this. He might not get served. He might not show up. And then — boom — default judgment. The court rules against him automatically. His wages could be garnished. His credit score tanks further. And LVNV pockets the cash, minus whatever they paid for the debt. It’s a machine. A well-oiled, slightly dystopian machine that grinds on, one $900 lawsuit at a time.

Our take? We’re not rooting for the debt collector. Sorry, Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C. — your name is fantastic, but your client is basically a financial zombie, feeding on expired debts. We’re also not saying Michael Titus is a saint. Maybe he went on a shopping spree and ghosted the bill. But at some point, we have to ask: is this how we want our legal system used? To chase down people for less than a thousand bucks? Should judges, clerks, and notaries be spending their time on cases that could’ve been resolved with a single phone call or a payment plan?

And let’s not pretend this is rare. This isn’t some bizarre outlier. This is how it works. Thousands of these cases get filed every day across America. Tiny debts. Faceless corporations. Overworked courts. It’s not dramatic. There’s no blood. No betrayal. Just paperwork, profit, and the slow, quiet erosion of dignity.

So here’s to Michael Titus. May he fight the good fight. Or at least remember to check his mail. And here’s to LVNV Funding LLC — may your portfolios be ever profitable, and your attorney fees never exceed your judgments. Because honestly? At this rate, you’re running a charity.