LVNV Funding LLC v. Thomas Burkhart

Let’s cut right to the chase: someone is being sued for $966.64. That’s not a typo. Nine hundred sixty-six dollars and sixty-four cents. And not by a person they borrowed from, not by a bank they’ve ever met, not even by someone who pretends to care about their financial well-being. No, this lawsuit comes from a company called LVNV Funding LLC—a name that sounds less like a financial entity and more like a rogue AI from a 1990s cyber-thriller—over a credit card debt originally issued by Credit One Bank, which was then sold, bundled, resold, reassigned, and presumably shuffled through three different offshore portfolios before landing in the lap of a debt buyer who’s now hiring a five-attorney legal team to collect less than a thousand bucks. Yes, five lawyers. For under a thousand dollars. If this were a heist movie, the punchline would be: “They came for the money… and somehow lost money doing it.”

So who are these people? On one side, we have Thomas Burkhart, a resident of Creek County, Oklahoma, whose only known crime—at least according to the court filing—is failing to pay off a credit card. We don’t know if he maxed it out on groceries during a hard time, bought a suspiciously large number of glow-in-the-dark fidget spinners in 2022, or just forgot to cancel a subscription to a meditation app that promised enlightenment but delivered only passive-aggressive push notifications. What we do know is that at some point in February 2022, he opened a Credit One Bank card (account number ending in 5514, because of course it does), used it, and eventually stopped making payments. That’s where the story takes a very American turn.

Because in the U.S., when you don’t pay a debt, it doesn’t just vanish into the void of financial shame. Oh no. It gets sold. Like a slightly used prom dress on Poshmark, but with more paperwork and fewer sequins. Credit One Bank, after presumably giving up on collecting, sold Burkhart’s debt—along with hundreds or thousands of others—to a company called Credit Asset Sales LLC, which then bundled it into something called Portfolio 42531 (sounds like a secret government experiment, doesn’t it?) and flipped it to LVNV Funding LLC on October 25, 2023. LVNV—short for “Let’s Virtually Never Visit” or possibly “Loan Vultures Need Victory,” depending on your level of cynicism—is what’s known as a debt buyer. These are companies that purchase defaulted debts for pennies on the dollar, then try to collect the full amount (plus fees, interest, and legal costs) from the original debtor. It’s like buying a junker car at auction for $200 and then suing the original owner for the full Blue Book value when they “forgot” to return the spare tire.

Now, fast-forward to December 18, 2025. LVNV, armed with an affidavit and a legal team that reads like a law firm’s group chat (“Hey Bill, wanna sue someone for $966?” “Sure, I’ve got five associates with nothing to do.”), files a Petition for Indebtedness in Creek County District Court. They claim Burkhart owes them exactly $966.64—down to the cent, because nothing says “we care about accuracy” like litigating two-thirds of a dollar. They attach an affidavit from one Aviyana Lane-Suber, an “Authorized Representative” of LVNV, who swears under penalty of perjury that all the records are true, that the debt was properly transferred, and that demand for payment was made more than 30 days ago. Translation: “We sent a letter. He didn’t pay. Now we’re taking him to court.”

But let’s pause and really look at this. The plaintiff is a faceless debt collection company. The original creditor is out of the picture. The defendant likely has no memory of this account. The amount? Less than the average American spends on takeout in two months. And yet, here we are: a formal court filing, notarized affidavits, a team of six attorneys (yes, six—count ‘em: William, Harley, Gracelyn, Jenifer, Daniela, Mariah, and Benjamin), all mobilized to recover a sum so small it wouldn’t even qualify as a small claims case in some states. (In Oklahoma, small claims cap at $10,000, so technically this could be heard there—but LVNV chose the full district court route anyway. Overkill? Just a little.)

So what are they actually asking for? Judgment of $966.64, plus interest at the statutory rate (currently 5% in Oklahoma), court costs, and—here’s the kicker—a reasonable attorney’s fee. Let that sink in. They want the court to force Burkhart to pay not just the debt, but also the cost of the very lawyers suing him. Which means LVNV might walk away with, say, $1,200 or more—on a debt they likely paid less than $100 to acquire. That’s a profit margin that would make a payday lender blush.

Is $966.64 a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, no. It’s less than the deductible on most car insurance policies. It’s about three months of Netflix, Hulu, and Disney+ if you’re still paying full price like a sucker. But for an individual—especially someone being sued over a debt they may not even remember—it’s not nothing. It’s a car repair. A plane ticket to visit family. Half a month’s rent in some parts of Oklahoma. And the real cost? Time. Stress. The hassle of hiring a lawyer (or trying to represent yourself), showing up to court, and defending against a claim from a company you’ve never heard of, over a debt you didn’t agree to with them.

So what’s our take? The most absurd part isn’t even the six-lawyer tag team for a sub-$1,000 claim. It’s the entire machine behind this case—the way debt in America has become a commodity, traded like baseball cards, stripped of context, humanity, or accountability. Thomas Burkhart didn’t borrow money from LVNV. He didn’t sign a contract with them. He didn’t even know they existed until this lawsuit landed in his mailbox. And yet, under the law, they’re allowed to sue him as if they’re the original lender. That’s not justice. That’s financial whack-a-mole.

We’re not rooting for anyone to dodge responsibility. If you charge $966 on a credit card, you should pay it back. But we are rooting for a system that doesn’t turn personal hardship into a profit center for debt speculators. We’re rooting for courts to be places where real disputes are settled—not collection agencies’ automated pipelines. And honestly? We’re rooting for Thomas Burkhart to show up with a checkbook, a smirk, and a copy of the full invoice from LOVE, BEAL & NIXON, P.C.—just to see how much of that $966.64 went to actual legal work, and how much went to covering the cost of printing this very dramatic, deeply unnecessary, and slightly ridiculous lawsuit.

Because in the end, this isn’t just about $966.64. It’s about how far we’ve gone down the rabbit hole of financial absurdity. And folks, we are way past the looking glass.