6370 W Wilshire Property LLC v. Dytwon Blackmon & All Occupants

Let’s cut straight to the part that’ll make you spit out your morning coffee: a man in Oklahoma City is being kicked out of his apartment—not for missing rent, not for throwing wild parties, not even for keeping a pet raccoon in the bathtub—but for racking up over seven thousand dollars in fees. Seven. Thousand. Dollars. In fees. On top of just over a grand in unpaid rent. That’s not a late payment—that’s a down payment on a used car. And now, Dytwon Blackmon and everyone chilling in his apartment (because apparently, this is a commune situation now) are getting the boot from Lakeside Village Apartments, where the grass is green, the pools are blue, and the fee structure is apparently ruthless.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got 6370 W Wilshire Property LLC—also known as Lakeside Village Apartments—a business entity that, like most landlords in America, probably dreams of on-time rent payments and quiet tenants who don’t clog the garbage disposals with pizza boxes. They’ve hired Darquita L. Maggard, a seasoned attorney with the Oklahoma Bar number 14917 (yes, we checked—she’s real, she’s fierce, and she’s here to collect), to handle this eviction like a legal bounty hunter. On the other side: Dytwon Blackmon, a man whose name now lives in the annals of civil court drama, alongside “John Doe Who Poured Concrete in the Living Room” and “Tenant Who Tried to Claim Their Dog Was an Emotional Support T-Rex.” The filing doesn’t say how long Dytwon’s lived at 6354 W Wilshire Blvd, or whether he throws great BBQs on the balcony, but it does tell us one thing loud and clear: he owes money. A lot of money. And not just rent—fees. Oh, the fees.

Now, let’s unpack this financial horror story. According to the sworn statement filed by Maggard on February 24, 2026, Dytwon hasn’t paid $1,049 in rent. That part is bad, sure—about two months’ rent for a modest Oklahoma City apartment, depending on the unit. But then comes the kicker: $7,673.03 in unpaid fees. Let that number marinate. Seven thousand, six hundred, seventy-three dollars and three cents. In fees. That’s more than the average American spends on groceries in a year. More than most people pay for a wedding ring. And we’re not talking about damage to the property—that amount isn’t even listed under damages. No, this is fees. Late fees? Pet fees? Noise violation fines? Did Dytwon accidentally run a meth lab in the basement and get charged a “hazardous waste disposal surcharge”? The filing doesn’t say, but the mind reels. Was there a “failure to return key within 12 seconds of lease termination” fee? A “landlord looked at your trash and didn’t like the brand of soda cans” penalty? We may never know. But one thing’s certain: someone at Lakeside Village Apartments has been very creative with their accounting.

The landlord, through their attorney, claims they’ve followed procedure to the letter. On February 9, 2026, they sent a notice via certified mail—after posting it somewhere on the property, likely on Dytwon’s door like a passive-aggressive eviction valentine. The message? Pay up, fix the problem, or get out. And Dytwon… didn’t. Didn’t pay. Didn’t leave. Didn’t call to negotiate. Just… stayed. Like a houseplant that’s been forgotten in a dark closet, slowly wilting but still technically alive. And now, the courts are involved. The judge’s name is Collins. The room is 631. The time? 10 a.m. on March 4, 2026. Coffee will be mandatory.

So why are they in court? Because this is an eviction case—specifically, a “Landlord’s Sworn Statement Requesting Eviction.” In plain English: the landlord says, “This person owes us a mountain of money and won’t leave, so we’re asking the judge to legally kick them out.” No jury trial requested, no dramatic courtroom showdown with surprise witnesses. Just cold, hard procedure. The landlord isn’t asking for punitive damages—no extra punishment money for being extra annoying. But they are asking for injunctive relief, which is legalese for “make this person go away, Your Honor.” They also want the $7,149.00 in total damages—wait, hold up. $7,149? But earlier it said $1,049 in rent and $7,673.03 in fees. That’s $8,722.03. So why are they only demanding $7,149? Did they do a settlement calculation? Round down for good vibes? Or is this a clerical error that’ll send some poor paralegal into a spiral of self-doubt? We may never know. But the discrepancy is chef’s kiss in the world of petty civil drama.

Now, let’s talk about what they want. The landlord wants two things: money and possession. They want $7,149 (whatever that number represents in their internal math) and they want Dytwon and all occupants—yes, all occupants, which means if your cousin Tyrone is crashing on the couch, he’s getting evicted too—out of the apartment. Is $7,149 a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s not massive—you won’t see this on Judge Judy with a dramatic music sting. But for a tenant in Oklahoma City, that’s a life-changing sum. For a landlord? It’s a serious hit to the bottom line, especially if they’ve been letting fees accumulate for months. But here’s the real question: how does a person go from “oops, forgot rent this month” to “you now owe the equivalent of a year’s car insurance in fees”? That’s the mystery at the heart of this case. Was there poor communication? A breakdown in the lease agreement? Or did Dytwon just ignore every notice, every email, every knock on the door, living in a blissful bubble of denial while the fees piled up like dirty laundry?

Our take? Look, we’re not here to defend unpaid rent. If you live somewhere, you should pay for it. That’s capitalism 101. But $7,673 in fees? That’s not a fee. That’s a ransom. At some point, the landlord has a duty to mitigate damages—meaning they can’t just let charges balloon into the stratosphere and then act shocked when the tenant can’t pay. Did they try to work with Dytwon? Offer a payment plan? Sit down like adults and say, “Hey, you’re behind, let’s figure this out”? The filing doesn’t say. But if they’ve been nickel-and-diming him to death with escalating penalties while refusing to negotiate, then this isn’t just an eviction—it’s a financial ambush. And honestly? We’re rooting for the underdog. Not because Dytwon is innocent—again, we don’t know that—but because the idea of someone getting crushed by a mountain of fees feels less like justice and more like legalized gouging. Also, “all occupants” is such a power move. It’s like the legal version of “and anyone else you’ve invited to this disaster.” Sorry, cousin Tyrone. You got evicted for someone else’s spreadsheet negligence.

In the end, this case is a perfect storm of miscommunication, financial spiraling, and the cold, unfeeling machinery of landlord-tenant law. It’s not a murder. It’s not a scandal. But it is a story about how quickly life can go off the rails when you miss a few payments and no one hits pause to ask, “Hey… are you okay?” Because sometimes, $8,000 in fees isn’t just about money—it’s about a system that punishes people for falling, instead of helping them get back up. But hey, at least the court date is at 10 a.m. Plenty of time for Dytwon to grab a coffee before finding out if he’s officially homeless. We’re not lawyers. We’re not landlords. But we are here for the drama. And this? This is good drama.