Eagle Redi-Mix Concrete, LLC v. Gelino CCC LLC

Let’s get one thing straight: this case is not about a murder. It’s not even about a stolen goat or a backyard wrestling match gone wrong. No, this is something far more dangerous—something that strikes at the very soul of small business America. A concrete company is suing over $16,000 in unpaid materials. Yes, concrete. The gray stuff you walk on, the foundation of your dreams, the literal bedrock of modern civilization. And now, it’s the centerpiece of a legal showdown in Payne County, Oklahoma, where one man’s failure to pay for a few truckloads of mix has turned into a full-blown courtroom drama with three defendants, a lien, and a bank caught in the crossfire like it’s the final boss in a video game nobody asked to play.

So who are these people? On one side, we have Eagle Redi-Mix Concrete, LLC—basically the Avengers of ready-mix, swooping in with trucks full of slurry to help build stuff that doesn’t immediately collapse. They’re based in Oklahoma, they wear hard hats (probably), and they expect to get paid. Represented by the legal dream team of Matt Crook and Kody Hicks from McAfee & Taft, P.C.—yes, that’s a real law firm name, and no, we don’t know if they’re related to the Taft in Taft-Hartley—they’re not messing around. This is a professional outfit, and they don’t let invoices go unpaid without sending in the legal cavalry.

On the other side? A trio of defendants that read like a corporate mystery novel: Gelino CCC LLC, Matthew Gelino (who we’re guessing is related to the LLC, because names don’t lie), and… Simmons Bank. Yes, the bank. Not a contractor, not a developer, but a bank, which somehow ended up on the hook for unpaid concrete. How did we get here? Buckle up, because this is where things get gloriously petty.

Here’s what went down. Between August 6 and October 6, 2025, Eagle delivered concrete—actual physical, pourable, set-in-stone concrete—to a property located at 608 S. Main Street in Stillwater, Oklahoma. That’s the kind of address that probably used to be a dry cleaner and is now being turned into a kombucha bar or a co-working space for influencers. The materials were used to improve the property—meaning someone poured, smoothed, and probably cursed at it during the Oklahoma summer heat. Eagle invoiced Gelino CCC LLC in the normal course of business. Standard stuff: “Here’s your concrete, here’s the bill, please pay within 30 days or we will come for your soul (or at least your assets).” The total? $16,224.68. Not a round number, which means this wasn’t a guess—it was calculated down to the cubic yard and the diesel surcharge.

But then… silence. No payment. No “we’re having cash flow issues.” No “our dog ate the checkbook.” Just straight-up ghosting. Eagle, being a responsible business, made a demand. Still nothing. So now we’re in breach of contract territory—meaning one party agreed to pay, and the other party agreed to deliver, and only one of them held up their end. Spoiler: it wasn’t the concrete people.

Now, here’s where it gets spicy. Matthew Gelino—presumably the human behind the LLC—had the foresight (or the bad luck) to sign a personal guaranty back in January 2024. That’s legal speak for “if the company doesn’t pay, I will, even if I have to sell my Peloton.” So when Gelino CCC LLC stiffed Eagle, Matthew didn’t get to hide behind the corporate veil. Nope. He’s personally on the hook. And when Eagle came knocking on his door, he didn’t answer either. Classic move.

But wait—why is Simmons Bank involved? Why is a financial institution being dragged into a dispute over construction materials? Ah, plot twist: Simmons owns the property. They’re the ones holding the deed to 608 S. Main. How? Through a merger—specifically, they’re the successor to Bank SNB, which sounds like a bank from a 1980s spy movie. So even though Simmons didn’t order the concrete, didn’t sign the contract, and probably didn’t even know Eagle existed until they got served, they now own a building that’s been improved with $16k worth of unpaid materials.

Enter the mechanic’s lien—the construction world’s version of a restraining order with financial consequences. Eagle, realizing they weren’t getting paid, did what any savvy contractor would do: they filed a lien against the property itself. On December 29, 2025, they recorded their claim with the Payne County Clerk, essentially saying, “Hey, this building is nicer now because of us, and if nobody pays, we get to sell it and take our cut.” It’s like putting a mortgage on someone else’s house because you landscaped their yard and they stiffed you.

So now Eagle is asking the court for several things: a judgment against Gelino CCC and Matthew Gelino personally for the $16,224.68, a judgment against the property (in rem, for the legal nerds), the right to foreclose on that lien (i.e., force a sale if necessary), and a declaration that their claim is more important than anyone else’s. Oh, and just in case the bank tries to play innocent, Eagle is also suing Simmons personally for unjust enrichment—meaning, “You got a better building without paying for it, so cough up the cash.”

Now, let’s talk about that number: $16,224.68. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, it’s not exactly Erin Brockovich territory. You can buy a decent used car for that. Or a very nice wedding. Or, in this case, approximately 600 cubic yards of concrete, depending on the mix. But for a small business, that’s real money. That’s payroll. That’s fuel. That’s the difference between staying open and having to lay off your best driver. So while it might not sound like a fortune, it’s not pocket change—and Eagle isn’t just mad about the amount. They’re mad about the principle. They showed up. They delivered. They did the work. And someone decided they could just… not pay.

And that brings us to our take. What’s the most absurd part of this whole saga? Is it that a bank now owns a property that’s technically encumbered by a concrete lien? Is it that a personal guaranty from 2024 is coming back to haunt someone in 2026 like a financial ghost? Is it that we’re sitting here, analyzing the legal implications of unpaid cement?

No. The most absurd part is that this is normal. This is how small businesses survive—by chasing down every dollar, by filing liens, by hiring big Tulsa law firms to fight for the right to be paid for rocks and water and cement. And yet, someone—somewhere—thought it was okay to just… not pay. Maybe they ran out of money. Maybe they thought the lien wouldn’t stick. Maybe they believed, in their heart of hearts, that concrete was just a gift to humanity and shouldn’t come with an invoice.

We’re rooting for Eagle. Not because they’re flawless, not because we love construction law, but because they did the work. They showed up. They poured the foundation—literally and figuratively. And if there’s one thing this country was built on, it’s not just concrete. It’s contracts. It’s promises. It’s the idea that if you deliver the materials, you get paid.

So pay up, Gelino. And Simmons Bank? Maybe next time, check the lien history before you inherit a building with a grudge.