VELOCITY INVESTMENTS, LLC v. CLARISSA BURNETT

Let’s cut right to the chase: a debt collector is suing a woman in Oklahoma for exactly $12,433.57—yes, fifty-seven cents included—because she allegedly didn’t pay back a loan, and now we’re all legally obligated to witness this very specific financial grudge match. No drama, no missing persons, no secret love child—just a number with two decimal places and a law firm that really, really wants it back. Welcome to Crazy Civil Court, where the stakes are low, the paperwork is high, and someone’s credit score is about to take a nosedive.

So who are these people, you ask? On one side, we’ve got Velocity Investments, LLC—sounds like a startup that sells energy drinks or maybe a timeshare in a building that doesn’t exist yet, but no, it’s actually one of those shadowy financial entities that buys up other people’s bad debts for pennies on the dollar and then sues to collect the full amount. Think of them as the vultures of the lending world: they didn’t lend the money originally, they just swooped in after someone else’s loan went sideways and said, “We’ll take that, thanks.” And on the other side of this legal showdown is Clarissa Burnett, an Oklahoma woman whose only known crime—at least according to this filing—is failing to pay back a loan she took out in May 2022 with a bank called FinwiseBank. We don’t know what the money was for—maybe a car, maybe a wedding, maybe a very expensive llama—but we do know that at some point, the payments stopped, the debt got sold, and now Clarissa is being dragged into court over a number that could’ve paid for a solid used Toyota but apparently wasn’t worth keeping up with.

Now, let’s walk through the thrilling timeline of events, because nothing says “edge-of-your-seat drama” like a breach of contract claim filed by a third-party debt buyer. Back on May 20, 2022, Clarissa allegedly signed a loan agreement with FinwiseBank. That’s the kind of bank that sounds like it was invented by a fintech bro in a hoodie—probably operates entirely online, has a sleek app, and sends you push notifications that say “Your credit score improved! Want a personal loan?” She took the money, presumably spent it, and then, somewhere down the line, stopped making payments. That’s the part where things get spicy. When you default on a loan, especially one with acceleration clauses (fancy legal term meaning “if you miss a payment, the whole balance becomes due immediately”), the lender can come after you for the full amount. FinwiseBank, or someone acting on their behalf, eventually decided they didn’t want to deal with collecting the debt anymore and sold it to Velocity Investments, LLC. That’s not unusual—banks do this all the time. But here’s where it gets legally spicy: Velocity didn’t just send a mean letter. They hired RAUSCH STURM LLP, a firm that proudly identifies itself in the filing as “Attorneys in the Practice of Debt Collection,” which is like putting “Professional Party Poopers” on your business card. These are the folks who show up to your mailbox with a stapler and a subpoena.

And what, exactly, are they claiming? Well, in legalese, it’s a “breach of contract”—which sounds way more dramatic than it is. In plain English: “Hey, you signed a thing saying you’d pay this money back. You didn’t. Now we want it.” That’s the whole ballgame. No accusations of fraud, no embezzlement, no hidden clauses about paying in gold bullion if inflation exceeds 5%. Just a straightforward “you owe us, and we’re suing.” The twist? Velocity isn’t the original lender. They’re what’s called a “successor-in-interest,” meaning they legally own the debt now, like when you buy a vintage record collection and suddenly you’re responsible for storing all those dusty vinyls. They’re stepping into FinwiseBank’s shoes, claiming the same rights—including the right to sue.

But here’s where it gets extra. Not only do they want the $12,433.57 (and yes, we’re still noting the fifty-seven cents—precision matters in debt collection, apparently), plus court costs and post-judgment interest (which means the debt keeps growing, like a financial mold), but they’re also asking the court to force the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission—the state’s unemployment agency—to hand over Clarissa’s employment history. Let that sink in. A debt collection law firm wants access to someone’s job history. Why? Probably to figure out if she’s employed, how much she makes, and whether they can garnish her wages if they win. It’s not just about the money—it’s about making sure they can get the money. And sure, courts allow this kind of discovery in debt cases, but it still feels… invasive. Like if your ex showed up at your workplace with a spreadsheet and a subpoena.

Now, let’s talk about the ask: $12,433.57. Is that a lot? Well, it’s not nothing. That’s a down payment on a car, a year of rent in some parts of Oklahoma, or approximately 415 venti pumpkin spice lattes. For a debt collection lawsuit, it’s on the higher end of “annoying” and edging into “life-altering.” Wage garnishment in Oklahoma can take up to 25% of disposable income, so if Clarissa’s working a minimum wage job, this could mean hundreds of dollars gone from her paycheck every month. And let’s not forget the credit score hit—this lawsuit, win or lose, is probably already tanking her ability to rent an apartment or get a car loan. So while $12k might seem modest in the grand scheme of civil litigation (this isn’t a class action or a medical malpractice case), for an individual, it’s the kind of debt that can spiral.

So what’s our take? Look, debt collection lawsuits are a fact of life in America. Millions happen every year. But there’s something deeply absurd about a law firm with a name like “Rausch Sturm” (which sounds like a villainous duo from a Cold War spy movie) sending a formal legal petition over a loan that started with a digital bank no one’s ever heard of, now being pursued by a company that didn’t even make the original loan. Clarissa Burnett may very well owe the money—she may have spent it on skydiving lessons or designer handbags or cryptocurrency, who knows—but the whole system feels like a shell game. The original lender is gone, replaced by a debt buyer, represented by a firm that specializes in suing people, all chasing a number that includes fifty-seven cents like it’s a sacred decimal. And the court is being asked to hand over someone’s employment history like it’s a convenience, not a deeply personal record.

We’re not rooting for deadbeats. We’re not saying people shouldn’t pay their debts. But come on—this is wild. A woman takes out a loan online, misses some payments, and now a Wisconsin-based law firm is demanding her job history from the state of Oklahoma because a debt investor wants every last penny. The most absurd part? That this is completely normal. That this happens every day. That somewhere, right now, another law firm is filing another petition for $8,321.42, and another person is getting a notice in the mail that could change their financial life forever—all because of a contract most people signed on a phone screen during a lunch break.

This isn’t high-stakes drama. It’s not Law & Order: SVU. But it is the quiet, grinding machinery of American debt culture—and sometimes, the most boring lawsuits are the craziest of all.