Sun Loan v. Linda Himes

Let’s cut straight to the chase: someone in Poteau, Oklahoma, is being hauled into small claims court over a loan that’s somehow ballooned to nearly $2,500 — and no, it’s not because they borrowed money to buy a car or start a business. It’s because they took out a small loan, presumably from a place called Sun Loan, which — and this is not a joke — sounds less like a financial institution and more like a tanning salon that also dabbles in payday lending. And now, over $2,300 later, we’re all here, reading affidavits like true crime junkies waiting for the twist. Spoiler: the twist is interest. The real villain.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Sun Loan — a business with an address on North Broadway Street in Poteau, which, based on the name alone, I can only assume operates under the philosophy that sunlight is the best disinfectant… for your bank account. They’re represented by Melicide Henson, whose name sounds like a villain from a legal thriller. “Melicide.” Like, the killing of melody? Or is he just really bad news for defendants? Either way, he’s not just the attorney — he’s also the deputy court clerk and the notary on this filing, which means he’s basically playing four roles in this drama: lawyer, witness, official seal-bearer, and court functionary. If this were a Shakespeare play, he’d be wearing four hats and delivering soliloquies about statutory interest rates.

On the other side is Linda Himes — a resident of Hamilton Street, also in Poteau, living just a few miles down the road from Sun Loan. We don’t know how she knows them, but we can make some educated guesses. Maybe she walked in on a rainy Tuesday looking for $500 to fix her car. Maybe she needed rent money. Maybe she just really wanted a new toaster and things spiraled. Whatever the reason, she signed a loan agreement. And now, according to Sun Loan, she didn’t pay it back. And not only didn’t she pay it back — she refused to, even after they asked nicely (or at least, formally). That’s the spark. That’s how we end up here, in LeFlore County Small Claims Court, where the stakes are low but the drama is high.

Now, let’s talk about what actually happened — or at least, what Sun Loan says happened. According to their sworn affidavit (which, again, was signed by Melicide Henson, because of course it was), Linda Himes owes them $2,337.20 for a “defaulted loan contract.” That means she borrowed money, agreed to pay it back under certain terms, and then… didn’t. The filing doesn’t say how much she originally borrowed, how long she had to repay it, or what the interest rate was — which is a huge missing piece, like watching a movie where the first act got eaten by the dog. But we can do some math. The total demand is $2,462.20 — that’s $2,337.20 in principal and $123 in costs. So whatever started as probably a few hundred bucks has now snowballed into a small mountain of debt. And yes, in Oklahoma, payday lenders are legally allowed to charge up to 179% APR under certain conditions. So if Linda borrowed, say, $600, and missed a few payments, suddenly $2,300 doesn’t sound impossible. Just soul-crushingly exploitative.

Sun Loan claims they demanded payment. Linda refused. No part of the debt has been paid. And now they’re suing — not in regular civil court, but in small claims, which in Oklahoma caps at $10,000. That’s important, because it means Sun Loan thinks they can win this quickly, cheaply, and without a full-blown trial. Small claims court is supposed to be for everyday disputes — landlord deposits, broken appliances, unpaid babysitting gigs. But increasingly, it’s become the go-to venue for lenders chasing down consumers. It’s faster. It’s simpler. And crucially, defendants often don’t show up — which means automatic judgment for the plaintiff. Is that what Sun Loan is counting on? Possibly. But Linda Himes has been formally ordered to appear on April 17, 2026 — seven days after being served, or that date, whichever is later — and bring all her evidence, witnesses, and arguments. If she doesn’t? Boom. Judgment by default. Game over. She owes every penny.

So what are they actually fighting about, legally? Strip away the legalese, and this is a straightforward breach of contract claim. Sun Loan says: “We gave her money. She promised to pay it back. She didn’t. Now we want our money.” That’s it. No fraud. No assault. No stolen lawn gnomes. Just a broken promise to repay a loan. In most states, that’s not even criminal — it’s a civil matter, which is why Sun Loan isn’t calling the cops, they’re calling the court clerk. And while the filing doesn’t specify if this was a payday loan, title loan, or personal installment loan, the involvement of Sun Loan — a known short-term lender — suggests this wasn’t a friendly IOU between neighbors. This was a transaction with terms, fees, and likely, a very aggressive repayment schedule.

Now, let’s talk about the money. $2,359.20. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, no. You can’t even buy a decent used car for that anymore. But in the world of small claims court? That’s a serious chunk of change. Most small claims cases are for a few hundred bucks — a damaged phone, a missed deposit. This is over two thousand. That’s rent. That’s a month of groceries. That’s a year of Netflix and therapy combined. For Linda Himes, this could be devastating. For Sun Loan? Probably just another line item. But they’re still chasing it — down to the penny, plus costs. And let’s not forget: they’re also asking for attorney fees if allowed by law, which in many contract disputes, they are. So if they win, Linda might end up on the hook for even more.

Which brings us to the real question: what’s the most absurd part of this? Is it that a loan company is suing someone in small claims court for nearly $2,500? No — that happens every day. Is it that Melicide Henson is basically running the whole show — plaintiff’s rep, notary, court officer? A little shady, but not illegal. The real absurdity is how routine this all feels. Two neighbors — one a business, one a resident — both in Poteau, both on the same court docket, one demanding money, the other presumably struggling to pay. This isn’t a heist. It’s not a scam. It’s just… modern American debt. A system where a few hundred dollars today becomes two grand tomorrow, where the paperwork is flawless, the process is legal, and the human cost is buried in the fine print.

We’re not rooting for the lender. We’re not rooting for the borrower. We’re rooting for the story — the quiet, unglamorous tragedy of people getting crushed by financial systems that pretend to help but mostly just extract. If Linda Himes shows up on April 17th with a box of receipts, a shaky voice, and a plea for mercy, we’ll be listening. If she doesn’t show up, and the judgment lands like a hammer, we’ll still be here — not to mock, but to remind you: this is how it starts. With a small loan. And ends with a court order. And somewhere in between, someone loses more than money. They lose peace. They lose sleep. They lose faith.

And Sun Loan? They just add another line to the ledger.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But even we know this script feels way too familiar.