Midland Credit Management, Inc. v. Hertensen, Keegan R

Let’s get one thing straight: nobody wakes up dreaming of becoming a footnote in a $3,108.04 debt collection lawsuit. And yet, here we are. Keegan R. Hertensen, a man whose name sounds like a rejected Dungeons & Dragons character, is now the defendant in a legal drama so mundane it could only take place in the District Court of Kingfisher County, Oklahoma—population: not enough people to form a quorum at a minor league baseball game. The crime? Allegedly failing to pay off a Citibank credit card. The punishment? Being sued by a debt buyer with the energy of a spreadsheet given sentience.

Now, before you roll your eyes and say, “Oh great, another credit card lawsuit,” let’s pause. Because this isn’t just any old bill gone rogue. This is Midland Credit Management, Inc. —not the original bank, not a local lender with a handshake and a smile, but a company whose entire business model is built on scooping up other people’s financial regrets and then suing them for every last penny. Think of them as the vultures of the American debt ecosystem: they don’t create the mess, but boy, do they profit from the cleanup. And their lawyer? Gracelyn Dillingham, representing a firm that sounds like a rejected law-themed boy band: Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C. Out of Oklahoma City, with a P.O. box and a fax number that hasn’t been used since the Obama administration, they’ve filed thousands of these cases. This one just happens to have landed on our radar.

So who is Keegan R. Hertensen? We don’t know much. No criminal record cited, no dramatic backstory revealed in the filings. Just a name, a county (Kingfisher, which honestly sounds like a town invented for a children’s cartoon), and a credit card account that went sideways. According to the affidavit tucked into the court file—sworn under penalty of perjury by one Abdifatah Mohamed, a Legal Specialist in St. Cloud, Minnesota, which is about as far from Oklahoma as you can get without needing a passport—Hertensen opened the account back in August 2019. That was, notably, right before the world caught fire. Pandemic, lockdowns, stimulus checks, toilet paper shortages—the whole shebang. Maybe he bought groceries. Maybe he bought a Peloton and then discovered he hated it. Maybe he just really needed new tires. We’ll never know. What we do know is that the last payment was made on June 14, 2024—so less than six months before this lawsuit dropped like a lead balloon on December 23, 2025.

Somewhere between that last payment and January 15, 2025, the account was “charged off.” That’s banker-speak for “we’ve given up on you paying us back, so we’re writing it off as a loss.” But—and here’s the twist—just because Citibank gave up doesn’t mean the money vanished. Nope. They sold the debt. Probably for pennies on the dollar, to a company like Midland Credit Management, whose entire reason for existing is to buy up deadbeat accounts and then try to collect. Midland became the “successor in interest” on February 21, 2025, which is legalese for “we now own your regret.” And now, they want their $3,108.04. Plus interest. Plus court costs. Plus the emotional labor of having to file this exact same petition for the 847th time this year.

The legal claim here is as straightforward as a highway in the Oklahoma flatlands: debt collection. That’s it. No breach of contract drama, no fraud, no wild accusations of identity theft or forged signatures. Just a balance owed, a default confirmed, and a corporate entity demanding judgment. No jury trial requested. No injunctions. No demands for public apologies or TikTok videos. Just cold, hard cash. And honestly? $3,108.04 isn’t nothing—but it’s not a fortune, either. That’s about the cost of a mid-range used car down payment, or a solidly overpriced engagement ring from a mall kiosk. It’s also less than the average American household’s credit card debt, which clocks in at over $7,000. So comparatively, Keegan isn’t some high-roller who maxed out a private jet. He’s just a guy who didn’t pay his bill, got charged off, and now has a Minnesota-based legal specialist testifying about his financial life from 800 miles away.

But here’s where it gets deliciously absurd. The affidavit—the sworn statement that’s supposed to carry the weight of truth—is signed by Abdifatah Mohamed, who claims to have “personal knowledge” of Keegan Hertensen’s account records… despite never having met him, never spoken to him, and likely never even seen his face. He’s not a bank employee. He’s not a financial advisor. He’s a legal specialist employed by a debt collection law firm, reading data off a screen and saying, “Yep, this guy owes money.” And the court is expected to accept that as fact. The document is full of phrases like “data and records acquired from the seller or assignor” and “digital means” and “regular course of MCM’s business.” It sounds less like a legal filing and more like a robot trying to explain capitalism to a confused alien.

And let’s talk about timing. The lawsuit was filed on December 23, 2025. That’s Christmas Eve Eve. Is there a more passive-aggressive date to sue someone? “Merry Christmas, Keegan! By the way, here’s a summons.” Did the paralegal hit “file” and then immediately go home to wrap presents? Was this the last case of the year, like a final boss battle in the Debt Collection Bingo game? And poor Christy Lynn Biias, the notary in Stearns County, Minnesota, who certified this on December 23rd—was she working late, sipping lukewarm coffee, wondering how she ended up notarizing a debt affidavit instead of sipping cocoa by the fire?

What does Midland want? Judgment. Money. Specifically, $3,108.04, plus interest at whatever rate Oklahoma law allows (probably not enough to buy a second cup of coffee at Starbucks, but still). They’re not asking for jail time. They’re not demanding Keegan appear on a stage and sing “I’m Sorry” in a dunce cap. They just want the court to say, “Yes, you owe this,” so they can start garnishing wages or freezing bank accounts. It’s not personal. It’s just business. Except—wait—it is personal. To Keegan, it’s very personal. That’s over three grand he doesn’t have, probably doesn’t want to pay, and now has to deal with during what should be the post-holiday recovery period.

Our take? This case is the legal equivalent of a pop-up ad: annoying, inevitable, and somehow always targeting the most vulnerable. The most absurd part isn’t that someone owes money. People do. The absurdity lies in the machinery—how a credit card debt from 2019 becomes a sworn affidavit from Minnesota, signed on Christmas Eve, filed by a law firm with a name that sounds like a 1970s detective duo, all over a sum that wouldn’t even cover a decent used truck. We’re not rooting for the debt collector. We’re not even really rooting for Keegan—we don’t know if he’s a deadbeat or a guy who got crushed by medical bills and bad luck. But we are rooting for the system to stop treating people like line items in a billion-dollar collection algorithm.

Also, can we just say: if you’re going to be sued for $3,108.04, maybe don’t pick a name that sounds like a minor Norse god? Keegan R. Hertensen, we see you. And so, apparently, does Midland Credit Management, Inc. May the odds be ever in your favor—especially if you plan on opening a bank account anytime soon.