Velocity Investments, LLC v. Jason Barahona Lanza

Let’s get right to the part that makes you spit out your coffee: a debt collector is suing a man in Oklahoma for exactly $2,098.80 — not $2,100, not “about two grand,” but two thousand ninety-eight dollars and eighty cents — and they’ve hired a law firm, filed a formal petition, invoked the power of the state court, and demanded the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission hand over the guy’s work history… all for the price of a slightly used washer-dryer set.

Meet Jason Barahona Lanza, a regular guy living somewhere in Garvin County, Oklahoma — likely minding his own business, paying his taxes, maybe grilling on weekends, definitely not expecting to become the star of a high-stakes legal drama over a sub-$2,100 debt. On the other side of this very one-sided showdown: Velocity Investments, LLC, a debt-buying company that swoops in like a financial vulture, purchases old loans for pennies on the dollar, then sues people to collect the full amount. They’re represented by Rausch Sturm LLP — a firm that, based on their email address [email protected], clearly specializes in Oklahoma debt collection and probably sends out these petitions like spam mail. The lead attorney? Michael Kidman, who, despite having a name that sounds like a minor character from a John Grisham novel, is apparently serious about getting that $2,098.80 — down to the nickel.

So how did we get here? According to the court filing — which, let’s be clear, is written in the most dramatic legalese possible for what is essentially a paper trail about a loan gone sour — Jason Barahona Lanza took out a loan from Onemain Financial Group back on September 15, 2023. Onemain is one of those “second-chance” lenders that gives people with shaky credit a shot at borrowing money — usually at sky-high interest rates, because risk comes with a price. The filing says Jason “for valuable consideration received” entered into the contract, which is lawyer-speak for “he got money and agreed to pay it back.” But, as happens more often than lenders like to admit, Jason stopped making payments. He defaulted.

Now, here’s where it gets juicy: Onemain didn’t stick around to collect. Instead, they sold the debt — probably for a few hundred bucks — to Velocity Investments, LLC, a company whose entire business model is buying up old, delinquent debts and then suing people to recover the full balance. Velocity, now the “successor-in-interest,” legally stepped into Onemain’s shoes and said, “Hey, we own this debt now, and we want every penny.” So they hired Kidman and Rausch Sturm to file a lawsuit in Garvin County District Court, claiming that after “all due and just credits applied,” Jason still owes $2,098.80. That number sounds suspiciously precise, doesn’t it? Like someone punched it into a spreadsheet and let the algorithm do the talking. No emotional appeals. No “we understand times are tough.” Just: You owe this. Pay up.

Now, why are they in court? Legally speaking, Velocity is suing for breach of contract — which, in plain English, means “you signed a loan agreement, you didn’t pay, so now we’re asking the judge to make you pay.” That’s it. No fraud, no theft, no dramatic betrayal — just a broken promise to repay borrowed money. But here’s the kicker: they’re not just asking for the $2,098.80. They’re also asking the court to order the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission — yes, the state agency that handles unemployment — to hand over Jason’s employment history. Why? Probably to figure out if he’s working, how much he makes, and whether they can garnish his wages if they win. It’s a standard move in debt collection lawsuits, but it still feels dystopian: a private debt collector using the full power of the state judiciary to dig into someone’s job records because they’re $2,098.80 short.

And let’s talk about that number — $2,098.80. Is that a lot? Well, it depends on who you ask. If you’re Jason, maybe it’s the difference between keeping the lights on and choosing which bill to ignore. If you’re Velocity Investments, it’s probably less than the cost of the coffee their attorney drank while drafting this petition. But here’s the wild part: filing a lawsuit in Oklahoma isn’t free. There are court fees, attorney hours, postage, notary costs — and Rausch Sturm is billing by the hour, even if they’re running this like an assembly line. So it’s entirely possible — maybe even likely — that Velocity has already spent more suing Jason than they’ll ever recover, even if they win. This isn’t about one guy. This is about volume. Velocity probably files hundreds of these a month. They win some, lose some, scare some into settling, and the math works out in their favor overall. Jason isn’t a defendant — he’s a data point.

And yet, the sheer pettiness of it all is what makes it glorious. Picture this: a paralegal in Wisconsin, sipping lukewarm coffee, pulling Jason’s file from a digital queue, clicking “generate petition,” and sending it off to Oklahoma like it’s just another Tuesday. No personal grievance. No face-to-face confrontation. Just a cold, robotic pursuit of $2,098.80 — complete with a demand for employment records and a not-so-subtle threat of wage garnishment. And for what? A loan that probably started as a few thousand bucks, got sold for pennies, and is now being litigated like it’s a matter of national importance.

Our take? We’re not rooting for the debt collector. We’re not even really rooting for Jason — not because he doesn’t deserve sympathy, but because this whole system is rigged to make everyone feel like a sucker. The absurdity isn’t that someone owes money. It’s that in 2026, we have entire law firms and investment companies built entirely on suing ordinary people for small debts, using the courts like a collections department with a judge. We’re talking about a company demanding a government agency hand over someone’s job history — not because he committed a crime, but because he didn’t pay back a loan. That’s not justice. That’s bureaucracy weaponized.

And honestly? If Velocity wins, they’ll get their $2,098.80 — maybe after Jason’s wages are garnished, maybe after he sells something, maybe after he just gives up. But they’ll never get dignity. Because no matter how many lawsuits they file, no matter how many “successor-in-interest” claims they stack up, chasing someone for two thousand ninety-eight dollars and eighty cents with this much paperwork and legal firepower? That’s not business. That’s humiliation as a revenue model.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers — but even we know that no amount of legal jargon can make this look like anything other than what it is: a corporate collection machine chewing up a regular person and calling it justice. And the craziest part? This case isn’t even unusual. It’s Tuesday.