LVNV Funding LLC v. Patrick Yeary

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a man in Oklahoma is being sued for $2,086.44—yes, that’s two thousand eighty-six dollars and forty-four cents—by a company that didn’t even lend him the money, doesn’t know him personally, and probably couldn’t pick him out of a lineup if their lives depended on it. But hey, the paperwork is impeccable, the notary showed up, and the legal machine grinds forward, because in America, even your forgotten credit card balance from 2019 can come back to haunt you like a bad ex with a restraining order.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Patrick Yeary, a regular dude from Canadian County, Oklahoma, who, based on the court filing, once got a credit card from Credit One Bank back in October 2019. We don’t know what he bought—maybe it was a new grill, maybe it was a series of DoorDash orders during a particularly rough week, maybe it was that one impulse Peloton purchase we all regret. What we do know is that at some point, he stopped paying it. Life happened. Bills piled up. The card got maxed out. And like so many Americans, he probably figured the debt would just… fade into the ether. Spoiler: it did not.

On the other side? LVNV Funding LLC. Sounds like a tech startup or maybe a hedge fund that trades in distressed dreams. In reality, it’s a debt buyer—a company that specializes in purchasing old, delinquent debts for pennies on the dollar, then trying to collect the full amount (plus fees, interest, and legal costs) from the original borrower. Think of them as the vultures of the financial world: they didn’t lend you the money, they didn’t watch you struggle to make payments, they just swooped in after the original creditor gave up and said, “Hey, we’ll take that $2,000 IOU for, like, $200.” Now, they’re acting like they’ve been personally wronged and want their money back—plus court costs, interest, and a “reasonable attorney’s fee,” because of course they do.

Here’s how we got here: Back in 2019, Patrick opened a Credit One Bank credit card. He used it. He didn’t pay it off. The account went delinquent. Credit One, like many banks, eventually wrote off the debt as a loss for tax purposes—meaning they stopped trying to collect and moved on with their lives. But instead of vanishing into the void, the debt was sold—first to a company called Credit Asset Sales LLC (because nothing says “I care about your financial well-being” like a name that sounds like a tax form), and then, in March 2024, that entire portfolio of deadbeat accounts—including Patrick’s—was sold off to LVNV Funding LLC. It’s like a bulk auction of financial regret.

Now, fast-forward to early 2026. LVNV, armed with a spreadsheet and a notarized affidavit, files a lawsuit in Canadian County District Court. Their argument? Simple: Patrick owes $2,086.44. They have the records. They have the chain of ownership. They even waited more than 30 days after demanding payment—so they’re technically following the rules. The affidavit is signed by one Gina Marie Behlke, who claims to be an “Authorized Representative” for LVNV, and while we don’t know if she’s ever met Patrick or even seen his face, she swears under penalty of perjury that the debt is real, the records are accurate, and the amount is “justly and duly owed.”

And that’s it. No dramatic confrontation. No missed birthdays or broken promises. Just a cold, corporate paper trail leading to a man being hauled into court over less than $2,100.

So why are they in court? Legally, this is a “petition for indebtedness”—a fancy way of saying “we want a judge to order this person to pay us money they owe.” LVNV isn’t accusing Patrick of fraud, theft, or breach of contract. They’re not saying he lied or cheated. They’re just saying: “This debt exists. We own it. He hasn’t paid. Please make him pay.” In legal terms, it’s straightforward. In human terms? It’s kind of wild. We’re talking about a financial transaction that began over six years ago, changed hands multiple times, and is now being litigated by a third-party collector who bought it for a fraction of its value. But in the eyes of the law, that’s enough.

Now, what do they want? $2,086.44—plus interest from the date of judgment, court costs, and a “reasonable attorney’s fee.” Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s practically pocket change. You could buy a decent used car for that. Or pay off a year of student loans. Or, if you’re LVNV Funding LLC, cover about three hours of attorney time. But for Patrick Yeary, it might be a month’s rent. Or a car repair. Or the difference between keeping the lights on and getting disconnected. The absurdity isn’t in the amount—it’s in the machinery. A man is being sued over a debt he likely forgot about, by a company that never met him, represented by a law firm with seven attorneys listed on the filing (yes, seven—this is not a typo), all for a sum that wouldn’t even cover the lawyers’ parking for a week in a major city.

And yet, here we are.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t even the lawsuit itself—it’s the sheer bureaucratic audacity of it all. LVNV didn’t lend Patrick a dime. They didn’t shake his hand. They didn’t offer him a grace period or a payment plan. They bought a spreadsheet entry and now they’re treating it like a sacred contract written in blood. Meanwhile, the original lender—Credit One Bank—probably wrote off this loss years ago and is now happily charging 29.99% APR to someone else. Patrick gets sued. LVNV gets to play victim. And the court system? It hums along, processing another debt case like it’s just another Tuesday—which, of course, it is.

We’re not rooting for anyone to dodge their debts. But we are rooting for a system that doesn’t treat human financial hardship like a commodity to be bought, sold, and litigated by faceless entities. We’re rooting for a world where a $2,000 mistake doesn’t follow you for a decade like a curse. And honestly? We’re rooting for Patrick to at least get a good meme out of this.

Because if nothing else, this case proves one thing: in America, no debt is too small, too old, or too forgotten to come back and slap you in the face—especially if there’s a notary involved.