CAVALRY SPV I, LLC, AS ASSIGNEE OF CITIBANK, N.A. v. RICHARD SCHELLER

Let’s cut right to the chase: Richard Scheller owes $808.89. That’s it. That’s the whole case. Eight hundred eight dollars and eighty-nine cents — a sum so small you could blow it on a single night at a slightly overpriced steakhouse, if inflation hasn’t already ruined that dream too. But here we are, in the hallowed District Court of Cimarron County, Oklahoma — not because someone murdered a goat, not because a neighbor put up a fence made entirely of discarded garden gnomes, but because a man didn’t pay his credit card bill, and now a faceless financial entity is chasing him through the legal system like it’s the climax of a courtroom thriller. Spoiler alert: the jury is not demanding a trial.

So who are these people? On one side, we have Cavalry SPV I, LLC, as Assignee of Citibank, N.A. — a name so corporate it sounds like a villain from a Sesame Street sketch about financial literacy. This isn’t a person. It’s not even really a company you can picture — no storefront, no employees handing out free pens at a bank. It’s a special purpose vehicle, which is Wall Street jargon for “a legal ghost we created to hold debt.” Think of it as a financial duffle bag: someone loads it up with old credit card debt, slaps a label on it, and sells it to the highest bidder. In this case, Citibank dumped Richard Scheller’s unpaid balance into the duffle bag, sold it off, and Cavalry SPV I, LLC picked it up, probably for pennies on the dollar. They didn’t know Richard. They don’t care about Richard. They just want their $808.89 — plus interest, fees, and the emotional toll of having to file a lawsuit in Cimarron County.

And then there’s Richard Scheller. Based on the address — 107 N. Ellis, Boise City, OK — he lives in a town so small it makes Mayberry look like Manhattan. Boise City has a population of around 1,200 people and one stoplight, if you’re lucky. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows your business, especially if you’re being sued by a shell corporation from Connecticut. Richard probably didn’t wake up one morning and decide, “You know what? I’m going to weaponize financial irresponsibility.” More likely, life happened. Maybe the water heater blew. Maybe the tractor needed new tires. Maybe he bought a refrigerator at The Home Depot on a credit card that Citibank issued, fell behind on payments, and got shuffled into the debt machine. Now, years later, the machine has caught up with him — not with a bang, but with a $1,200 legal filing fee (okay, probably less — but you get the idea).

The story, such as it is, unfolds like this: Richard Scheller once had a credit card. Possibly through Citibank in partnership with The Home Depot — because nothing says “financial responsibility” like buying a cordless drill with plastic and paying for it over five years. At some point, he didn’t pay the full balance. The account went delinquent. Citibank, like most big banks, doesn’t waste time chasing small debts — so they sold it. To whom? To Cavalry SPV I, LLC, one of many private equity-backed firms whose entire business model is buying up other people’s regrets and trying to collect on them. It’s like Antiques Roadshow, but instead of dusty vases, they’re flipping unpaid medical bills and forgotten Best Buy purchases.

Now, Cavalry wants its money. They’re not asking for much — just $808.89. That’s less than the average American spends on streaming services in a year if they’re really committed to cutting the cord. But in the world of debt collection, every dollar counts — especially when you’re suing hundreds or thousands of people at a time. This isn’t personal. It’s not even particularly strategic. It’s volume. It’s math. It’s capitalism at its most mundane.

So why are they in court? Legally speaking, this is a “Petition on an Account and Money Lent,” which sounds like Latin but is actually just legalese for “you borrowed money, now pay up.” The claim is straightforward: Richard promised to pay when he signed up for the credit card (or clicked “I agree” on some digital contract he didn’t read). He didn’t. The debt was sold. The new owner is now suing to collect. No fraud. No breach of contract drama. No secret affair revealed through credit card receipts. Just a debt. A number. A judgment waiting to happen.

And what do they want? $808.89. Let’s put that in perspective. That’s not a life-changing sum. It’s not even enough to buy a used car that runs consistently. But for Cavalry, it’s profit. For Richard, it might be two months’ worth of groceries. Or a car payment. Or the difference between keeping the lights on and getting a notice from the power company. The real cost, though, is the lawyer. Dan G. Young of Jenkins & Young, P.C. — a firm based in Lubbock, Texas — filed this case. That means someone got paid to type up a two-paragraph lawsuit, attach a signature block, and hit “file.” How much did that cost? Probably more than $808.89. Which raises the question: is this lawsuit even worth it? Or is this just the legal equivalent of sending a strongly worded email?

Our take? This case is absurd not because of the drama — there is none — but because of how utterly normal it is. This is how modern debt works. You fall behind. Your debt gets packaged, sold, and resold like a stale coupon book. Then one day, a law firm in Texas sues you in rural Oklahoma over a Home Depot credit card you may not even remember. There’s no villain. No hero. Just a system that turns personal struggle into spreadsheet line items. And the craziest part? This isn’t even a weird case. This happens every day, all over America. Thousands of tiny lawsuits, each for less than a thousand bucks, chewing up court time, lawyer hours, and human dignity — all for the crime of not having enough money.

We’re rooting for Richard, not because he’s innocent — he probably did owe the money — but because suing someone for under $810 in 2024 is less about justice and more about the bureaucratic steamroller of late-stage capitalism. If Cavalry wins, they’ll get their $808.89, maybe with interest. But they’ll never get back the goodwill they burned filing a lawsuit over less than a PlayStation. Meanwhile, Richard gets a judgment on his record, a ding on his credit, and a story he’ll tell at the VFW until the day he dies: “Y’all remember when they sued me for eight hundred bucks? Over a lawn mower battery?”

And honestly? We believe him. We believe all of it. Because in America, if you don’t pay, they will come for you — even if what you owe wouldn’t cover the gas to drive to the courthouse.