NAR INC v. Trandi Messe

Let’s be real: nobody wakes up dreaming of becoming a civil court drama queen over an $1,800 credit card bill. But here we are, in Custer County, Oklahoma—where the wind blows hard, the legal filings are dry as dust, and someone is this close to getting sued into next Tuesday for less than the cost of a decent used car tire. That someone? Trandi Messe, who allegedly used a Merrick Bank credit card like it was Monopoly money and now finds herself on the receiving end of a lawsuit from a shadowy assignee known only as NAR INC—a name so generic it sounds like a tax bracket or a rejected boy band.

Now, before you start picturing Trandi living large—sipping champagne on a yacht named Debt Denial—let’s get one thing straight: we don’t know what she bought. Was it groceries during a rough patch? A last-ditch medical bill? Or did she finally treat herself to that inflatable unicorn pool float she’s always wanted? The petition doesn’t say. What we do know is that Merrick Bank once gave Trandi a credit card, she used it, and then—somewhere between swiping and settling up—things went sideways. Payments stopped. The account went dark. And like clockwork, the financial machine kicked in: Merrick Bank, likely tired of chasing ghosts, sold or assigned the debt to NAR INC, which then hired a whole legal cavalry—five attorneys, for $1,868.08—to file a lawsuit that reads like a copy-paste template with a name plugged in at the top.

This is modern debt collection, folks: impersonal, corporate, and weirdly dramatic for something that could probably be resolved with a single phone call and a sincere apology. But no. Instead, we get a formal Petition filed in the District Court of Custer County, Oklahoma (population: approximately “not a lot”), where the most exciting thing might usually be the annual pie auction. Now, they’ve got a full-blown breach of contract case. The claim? Trandi broke the unspoken social contract of capitalism: you spend, you pay. And when you don’t? The lawyers come marching in, not with pitchforks, but with bar numbers and statutory citations.

So what exactly are they suing for? Let’s break it down like we’re on Judge Judy and the host is very tired. First, the $1,868.08—cold, hard principal. Then, post-judgment interest at the statutory rate, which in Oklahoma is governed by 12 O.S. § 727.1 (don’t worry, we looked it up—it’s currently around 6% per year, which isn’t crazy usury, but still adds insult to financial injury). They also want “all costs of this action,” which means filing fees, service of process, maybe a stamp or two—covered under 12 O.S. § 928. And finally, the pièce de résistance: a “reasonable attorney fee” under 12 O.S. § 936. That’s right—Trandi might not only have to pay back what she owes, but also help cover the salary of the legal team that sued her for it. It’s like being fined for being late to school and having to pay for the principal’s coffee that day.

Now, is $1,868.08 a lot of money? Well, that depends on who you ask. If you’re a multi-million-dollar debt collection firm, it’s barely a rounding error. It’s the financial equivalent of finding a slightly crumpled five under your couch cushion. But if you’re Trandi Messe, living paycheck to paycheck in rural Oklahoma, that sum could mean the difference between keeping the lights on or eating ramen for a month. The absurdity isn’t in the amount—it’s in the machinery. Five attorneys. A formal petition. A corporate plaintiff with a name that sounds like a spreadsheet error. All for less than two grand. You could argue this is justice. Or you could argue it’s capitalism running on autopilot, long after common sense has bailed.

And let’s talk about NAR INC for a second. Who—or what—is this entity? A quick dive into the corporate ether suggests it’s likely a debt buyer, a company that purchases delinquent accounts in bulk for pennies on the dollar, then sues to collect the full amount. It’s a booming industry, built on the backs of people who fell on hard times, made a mistake, or just got buried under life’s endless bills. These companies don’t care about your story. They don’t care if your dog died or your job evaporated. They bought your debt for $300 and now want $1,868.08. Profit margin: 500%. Risk: minimal. Drama: maximum.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t that someone got sued for under $2,000. It’s that we’ve normalized this. That the American legal system treats a minor debt like a felony-level betrayal of contract. That a woman named Trandi Messe is now officially part of a court docket not because she committed a crime, not because she harmed anyone, but because she didn’t pay a bill—and now has to face a legal army funded by a firm that employs five attorneys and a fax machine with a toll-free number.

We’re rooting for the humanity here. For the idea that maybe, just maybe, someone could miss a payment without being dragged into court. That debt doesn’t have to be weaponized. That $1,868.08 doesn’t have to come with a side of humiliation. But this is civil court, baby. Not therapy. Not mercy. Just motions, statutes, and the cold, hard math of collection.

So where does that leave us? With a case that’s legally a slam dunk—breach of contract is pretty straightforward—but morally, a little queasy. Because behind every number is a person. And behind every petition is a story we’re not hearing. Was Trandi unemployed? Sick? Was this a misunderstanding? A typo? A clerical error that ballooned into a lawsuit? We may never know. The filing doesn’t say. And the attorneys? They’re not here to tell tales. They’re here to collect.

Welcome to the petty civil court circus. The popcorn’s on us. The judgment? That’s on Trandi.