TC Pebble Creek, LLC v. Brittany Johnson & Ryan Stromberg & All Occupants

Let’s get one thing straight: nobody expects a quiet Tuesday night of microwave popcorn and true crime documentaries to be interrupted by a certified letter demanding they pay up or get booted onto the streets of Mustang, Oklahoma. But that’s exactly the kind of energy that TC Pebble Creek, LLC brought to the table when they dropped a legal bomb on Brittany Johnson, Ryan Stromberg, and—wait for it—all occupants of Apartment 104. Yes, “all occupants.” Not just the named tenants. Everyone. Even Kevin from the couch who only showed up for Super Bowl weekend and never paid rent. This isn’t just an eviction. It’s a full-scale residential purge.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got TC Pebble Creek, LLC—a name so generic it sounds like a timeshare resort in a tax shelter. They own the apartment complex at 320 N. Pebble Creek Terrace, where the drama unfolded. Represented by attorney Darquita L. Maggard (who, let’s be honest, probably handles more evictions before breakfast than most of us handle emails all week), this LLC plays the role of the no-nonsense corporate landlord who doesn’t mess around with late payments or emotional appeals. On the other side: Brittany Johnson and Ryan Stromberg, two individuals whose names are now forever linked in court records like a messy reality TV couple. Were they roommates? Partners? Siblings caught in a bizarre housing experiment? The filing doesn’t say. But their shared fate—and shared debt—suggests they made some choices together. And then there’s the mysterious “all occupants,” a legal flourish that sounds like the fine print in a zombie apocalypse lease agreement. Are we talking about a secret roommate? A child? A feral raccoon that’s been stealing snacks from the kitchen? The court doesn’t specify, but the inclusion adds a delightful layer of chaos to an already petty civil thriller.

Now, let’s talk about what actually went down. According to the sworn statement filed on March 10, 2026—yes, this case is so fresh it still smells like printer toner and mild desperation—the landlord had a simple demand: pay up or pack up. Specifically, they wanted $1,375 in past-due rent and $725 in unpaid fees. That’s $2,100 right there. And then—because someone clearly took inventory with a clipboard and a grudge—there’s an unspecified amount for damages. The form literally has a blank line: “$ ________ for damages.” Which means we’re operating on trust here. Was it a hole in the wall? A broken toilet? Did someone use the landlord’s reserved parking spot one too many times and now we’re calling it “property damage”? We may never know. But someone, somewhere, is on the hook for something, and the figure is important enough to include but too vague to actually write down. Classic.

The notice was served via posting (meaning it was probably taped to the door like a medieval decree) and followed up with certified mail on March 4, 2026. So by the time the lawsuit was filed a week later, the clock had officially run out. No payment. No peace. Just paperwork and a court date set for March 23 at 1:30 p.m.—a time so aggressively average it might as well be the setting on a microwave. No jury trial was requested, which means this isn’t “12 Angry People Arguing About Late Rent”—just a judge, a stack of forms, and the cold, hard reality of unpaid utilities and broken promises.

Now, why are we even here? Legally speaking, this is a textbook eviction and rent collection case. The landlord is asking for two things: first, to kick everyone out—eviction, or what the legal world calls “injunctive relief” when they want to make it sound fancy. Second, they want money. Specifically, $2,910 in total damages—$1,375 for rent, $725 for fees, and $810 for those mysterious, unitemized damages that live in the blank line of the form like a legal ghost. That’s the full demand. And while $2,910 might not sound like a fortune, let’s put it in perspective: that’s over two months’ rent for a modest apartment in Mustang. It’s also the cost of a decent used car, three iPhones, or approximately 970 cups of instant ramen. For a couple (or roommates, or whatever Brittany and Ryan are), that’s not chump change. It’s the kind of sum that can tank a credit score, delay a move, or force someone to choose between paying a court judgment and buying groceries. And yet, here we are—not because someone stole a car or hacked a bank, but because $2,910 in rent and fees went unpaid, and now “all occupants” are being legally exorcised from Apartment 104.

What makes this case particularly juicy isn’t just the money—it’s the theater of it. The posting of the notice. The certified mail. The inclusion of “all occupants” like it’s a subpoena for a house party gone wrong. This isn’t just about rent. It’s about power. It’s about procedure. It’s about a landlord saying, “I followed the rules, now you face the consequences,” while tenants presumably scramble to explain why the water heater exploded or why they thought February was a good month to just… stop paying.

And now, our take: what’s the most absurd part of this whole mess? Is it that $810 in damages was claimed but never explained? Is it the vague threat of “all occupants” being dragged into court for reasons unknown? Is it that this entire drama hinges on less than three grand? Honestly, it’s all of it. This case is the civil court equivalent of a nuclear response to a toaster fire. Someone missed a payment. Life happened. Maybe there was a job loss, a medical issue, a miscommunication. But instead of a conversation, we got a sworn statement, a certified letter, and a courtroom showdown scheduled between lunch and happy hour. We’re not rooting for anyone to get evicted. But we are rooting for a little more humanity in the housing system. And maybe for someone—Brittany, Ryan, Kevin from the couch, anyone—to finally explain what happened to that $810 worth of unspecified damage. Was it the cat? The leaky faucet? Did someone try to install a hot tub in the bathroom and just write it off as “wear and tear”? We may never know. But one thing’s for sure: in the grand tradition of petty civil disputes, this one’s got drama, mystery, and a blank line begging to be filled in. And if nothing else, it’s entertainment. Just don’t try to serve us an eviction notice via certified mail before we’ve finished our popcorn.