First Fidelity Bank, N.A. v. Troy Don Bundy

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not a murder mystery. There’s no body in a trunk, no secret affair, no poisoned heirloom casserole. But what we do have? A bank locked in a high-stakes game of vehicular hide-and-seek with a man who may or may not still be driving a very expensive pickup truck he didn’t finish paying for. Yes, folks, First Fidelity Bank is suing Troy Don Bundy—not the serial killer, thank God, but a man who allegedly vanished with a 2022 Toyota Tundra like he’s starring in his own low-budget Fast & Furious spinoff titled “Loan & Furious: Tulsa Drift.”

Now, who are these players? On one side, we’ve got First Fidelity Bank, N.A.—a financial institution with the personality of a spreadsheet and the patience of a meter maid. They’re represented by the full legal artillery of Robinson, Hoover & Fudge, PLLC (yes, Fudge—as in, “I can’t believe this case is real”). On the other side? Troy Don Bundy, a private individual whose name alone sounds like a character from a Coen Brothers film—part redneck, part enigma, all Oklahoma. The two were briefly in a committed relationship… of sorts. Not romantic, obviously. Financial. In December 2021, Bundy walked into Fowler Toyota of Tulsa with dollar signs in his eyes and walked out with a shiny new 2022 Toyota Tundra Crew Cab SR5 4WD, powered by a 3.5L V6 turbo engine and, more importantly, a loan.

The deal was standard: Bundy got the truck, Toyota got a security interest (a legal fancy way of saying “we own this until you pay us”), and then—because banks love paperwork and risk management—Toyota assigned that loan to First Fidelity Bank. Classic move. It’s like when your gym membership gets sold to a third-party debt collector. You still owe, but now the voice on the phone is slightly more menacing. Bundy was supposed to make payments. He did… for a while. The last time the bank saw a check (or more likely, an electronic transfer) was September 27, 2024. After that? Radio silence. No money. No explanation. Just crickets and a growing balance.

And here’s where it gets juicy: the bank says it’s tried to get the truck back. Multiple times. And every time, they’ve come up empty-handed. Not because the truck was wrecked. Not because it was repossessed by someone else. But because, according to their affidavit, Bundy is still in possession of the vehicle and wrongfully detaining it. Let that sink in. The bank believes the truck is out there, somewhere in Tulsa County, possibly being used to haul mulch, haul livestock, or haul… legal troubles. It’s not missing like “lost in the woods.” It’s missing like “someone knows where it is but isn’t telling.”

So why are we in court? Because First Fidelity Bank wants two things: the truck, and the money. Legally, this is called replevin—a term so obscure most people would think it’s a new TikTok dance. But in Oklahoma, replevin is a legal tool that lets a creditor demand the return of property when someone defaults on a loan. It’s not just about suing for cash. It’s about saying, “Hey, we don’t want your money. We want our truck.” And if they can’t get the truck? Then yes, fine, they’ll take the $35,848.95 Bundy still owes, plus interest, plus attorney fees, plus court costs—bringing the total demand to a crisp $36,848.95. That’s not chump change. But here’s the twist: according to the J.D. Power valuation attached to the filing, that same Tundra is worth at least $36,225 (clean loan value) and as much as $44,150 retail. So the bank isn’t even asking for the full value of the truck. They just want what’s owed. Which, in theory, is reasonable.

But let’s talk about what they’re really asking for. Beyond the money, the bank wants the court to declare that they have a “first, prior, perfected and superior security interest” in the vehicle. Translation: “We own this truck more than anyone else does, and if anyone tries to claim it, they lose.” They also want an injunction—basically a court order saying Bundy can’t sell it, hide it, scrap it, or turn it into a food truck serving smoked brisket tacos. Because at this point, the bank isn’t taking chances. They suspect the truck is still out there, and they’re not wrong—Oklahoma tax records show the lien was properly filed back in December 2021. The paperwork is clean. The trail goes cold at Bundy’s driveway.

Now, is $36,848.95 a lot? For most people, yes. It’s a down payment on a house in some parts of the country. It’s four years of college tuition. It’s also less than the truck is currently worth. So the bank isn’t trying to bleed Bundy dry—they’re trying to recover their collateral. But here’s the absurd part: this isn’t a case about fraud. It’s not about identity theft. It’s not even about a guy who bought a truck and then claimed he never signed anything. No, this is a guy who bought a luxury pickup, made payments for over two years, and then just… stopped. And now the bank can’t find the truck. Not because it’s in another state. Not because it’s underwater in a lake. But because Bundy isn’t cooperating. The affidavit says they’ve tried to recover it. Unsuccessfully. Which raises the question: is the truck parked behind his house with a tarp over it? Is it being stored at a buddy’s place? Or—worst case—is it already sold to some guy named Cletus for cash under the table?

And yet, despite the drama, there’s no jury demand. No dramatic courtroom showdown in the works (yet). Just a quiet, paperwork-heavy battle over a vehicle that, by mileage (42,500), has seen some life. It’s not brand new. It’s not ancient. It’s in that awkward middle age of car life—like a minivan with a lifted suspension and oversized tires. It’s lived.

So what’s our take? Look, we’re not rooting for banks. They’re not exactly the underdogs of the American dream. But here’s the thing: Bundy signed a contract. He got a nice truck. He used it. He benefited from it. And then he ghosted the payments. The bank didn’t make the interest rate predatory. They didn’t hide fees in fine print. They followed the rules. They filed the lien. They waited. They tried to recover the asset. And now they’re asking a judge to help them get what’s legally theirs.

The most absurd part? That we’re even talking about this. A bank suing a guy over a missing truck sounds like a plot from The Office or a Parks and Rec cold open. But this is real. This is how modern capitalism works in 2025: not with guns or gangs, but with affidavits and VIN numbers. And while we can joke about the name “Troy Don Bundy” sounding like a fake ID, the reality is, someone’s got a truck they didn’t pay for, and a bank wants it back.

So here’s hoping the Tundra turns up. Preferably with a full tank, clean interior, and no bumper stickers that say “I Owe, Therefore I Am.” Because at this point, the only thing more valuable than the truck is the sheer awkwardness of having to explain to a judge why you can’t produce it.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But even we know: you don’t get to keep the shiny thing if you stop paying for it. Sorry, Troy. The joyride’s over.