Oklahoma Motor Credit Company v. Matthew Blake Clark

Let’s get right to the juicy part: someone owes eighteen thousand dollars because they couldn’t keep up with car payments on a used 2019 Kia Optima. Not a Lamborghini. Not a lifted diesel dually with a moonroof and heated cupholders. A midsize sedan that, at the time of purchase, probably smelled faintly of stale fries and regret. But here we are, in Oklahoma County District Court, where the financial fallout of that fateful August 2025 decision to buy a slightly used Kia on credit has ballooned into a full-blown legal drama — or at least as dramatic as a standard breach of contract case can get. Buckle up. This isn’t Fast & Furious. This is Late & Fee-Driven.

So who are we dealing with here? On one side: Oklahoma Motor Credit Company, a name that sounds like it was generated by a random finance-sounding word machine, but in reality is just another player in the high-stakes world of subprime auto lending — the kind of company that specializes in getting cars into the hands of people who probably shouldn’t have them, at interest rates that make credit cards look generous. They’re represented by the full cavalry of Robinson, Hoover & Fudge, PLLC — yes, Fudge is a real attorney, and no, we are not making that up. Hugh H. Fudge, to be exact, bar number 20487, ready to lay down the law like a man who has never once been late on a payment in his life. On the other side: Matthew Blake Clark, a private individual whose current whereabouts, employment status, and general life trajectory are not disclosed in the filing — but whose name now appears on a court docket for failing to pay his car note. We don’t know if he lost his job, got evicted, or simply decided the Kia wasn’t worth $400 a month anymore. But we do know this: he signed a contract, he stopped paying, and now the lawyers are circling.

Here’s how this all went sideways. Back on August 1, 2025, Matthew Blake Clark walked into Joe Cooper Easy Credit Auto — a dealership name that screams “no credit? no problem!” — and drove off with a 2019 Kia Optima. Whether this was a moment of triumph or desperation is unclear. Maybe he needed a car for work. Maybe he was tired of Ubering to the gas station. Maybe he just really likes Kia’s five-year warranty policy (which, by 2025, had long expired). Whatever the reason, he entered into a financing agreement to pay for the vehicle over time. That contract, like most of these things, likely came with a hefty interest rate, balloon payments, and clauses that would make a law student’s head spin. But Clark signed it. He agreed to pay. And for a little while, he did — until he didn’t.

Somewhere between August 2025 and October 2025, the payments stopped. The filing doesn’t say why — illness? job loss? a sudden passion for cryptocurrency? — but it doesn’t matter. In the eyes of the law, when you stop paying, bad things happen. First, the car gets repossessed. That part isn’t in the petition, but it’s implied — the court document says the motor vehicle was “recovered and sold,” which is legalese for “they towed it from your driveway while you were at work.” Then, the lender sells the car, usually at auction, for whatever it can get. Given that 2019 Kias are now solidly in “used commuter car” territory, we’re guessing it didn’t fetch top dollar. After applying the sale proceeds to Clark’s outstanding debt, there was still a gap — a deficiency balance, in finance-speak — of $17,434.09. That’s not the full price of the car. That’s what he still owes after they took the car back and sold it. In other words, Matthew Blake Clark no longer has the Kia, but he still owes nearly the full price of a new one. Ouch.

Now, why are we in court? Because Oklahoma Motor Credit Company — who wasn’t the original lender, but rather the assignee of the contract (meaning Joe Cooper’s dealership probably sold the loan to them, like trading baseball cards) — wants that $17,434.09. Plus interest. Plus fees. Plus attorney’s fees. Plus costs. They’re not just asking for the principal; they’re coming for everything the law allows. The legal claim is straightforward: breach of contract. Clark agreed to pay. He didn’t. That’s it. No fraud. No assault. No dramatic car chase. Just a broken promise to pay money, which in civil court is enough to spark a lawsuit. The interest rate? A cool 7.99% per year — not outrageous by subprime lending standards, but certainly not what you’d get if you had, say, a credit score above room temperature.

And what do they want? $17,434.09 in principal, plus $431.24 in interest already accrued between October and February, plus more interest going forward, plus court costs, plus a “reasonable attorney fee” — which, given that five attorneys are listed on the petition, could be substantial. Is $17,434 a lot to sue over? In the grand scheme of civil litigation, it’s not exactly Erin Brockovich territory. But for a used Kia? Absolutely. The average price of a 2019 Kia Optima in 2025 was around $15,000 to $18,000 when it was sold new. Now, after depreciation, repossession, and auction fire-sale pricing, Clark still owes the full sticker price — and he doesn’t even have the car. It’s like paying for a concert ticket, getting kicked out during the opening act, and still being billed for the encore.

Now, our take: what’s the most absurd part of this whole mess? Is it that a man lost his car and still owes almost as much as it was worth? Is it that a company can repossess a vehicle, sell it for pennies on the dollar, and then sue for the difference — a difference that often exceeds the car’s fair market value at the time of default? Is it that we have five attorneys listed on a debt collection petition, like this is a Supreme Court case about constitutional rights instead of a dispute over a Kia sedan? Maybe it’s all of the above. But the real absurdity is how normal this is. This isn’t an outlier. This is how the subprime auto lending industry works. People with spotty credit get sold overpriced cars at sky-high interest rates, with loans structured so that they’re underwater from day one. When they default — and many do — the car gets taken, sold cheap, and they’re left on the hook for thousands they’ll never be able to pay. It’s a cycle designed to generate lawsuits, not transportation.

Do we feel bad for Matthew Blake Clark? Maybe. We don’t know his story. Maybe he lied on his application. Maybe he maxed out three credit cards before buying the Kia. Or maybe he’s a single parent who needed a car to get to work, got hit with a medical bill, and now faces wage garnishment over a deficiency balance on a car he hasn’t seen since Christmas. The filing doesn’t say. But we do know this: Oklahoma Motor Credit Company didn’t sue because they miss him. They sued because they want their money — and because the system lets them. And Hugh H. Fudge? He’ll probably get paid either way. That’s the real punchline: in this whole saga, the only person guaranteed to profit is the guy named Fudge.