Ascool Properties, LLC v. Justin Shellby

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a man in Shawnee, Oklahoma, is about to get kicked out of his house—lock, stock, and likely a very awkward conversation with the sheriff—over $1,656 in unpaid rent. That’s not a typo. We’re not talking about a luxury penthouse in Manhattan or even a two-story suburban dream home. We’re talking about 808 N Pennsylvania, Shawnee, OK 74801—a modest little spot that, according to public records, looks like it wouldn’t raise eyebrows on Zillow, let alone in a courtroom. But here we are, folks. Welcome to the high-stakes world of small-town eviction court, where the rent is low, the stakes are technically legal, and the tension is… well, let’s just say you could probably hear a tumbleweed roll by during the hearing.

On one side of this showdown: Ascool Properties, LLC, the landlord, which—fun fact—appears to be represented in court by a guy named Anthony Boaz, who also happens to be listed as a plaintiff and who just so happens to have a P.O. Box in Shawnee and a phone number that probably still has a landline vibe. Is Ascool Properties a sprawling real estate empire? Probably not. Is it possibly just Anthony Boaz in a LLC trench coat? We can’t prove it, but the circumstantial evidence is chef’s kiss. On the other side: Justin Shellby, the tenant, who up until March 14, 2026, was living at the property in question and, according to the filing, now owes $1,656 in rent and possibly a couple of bucks more for “damages to the premises.” Yes, you read that right—$2 or “TBD” for damages. TBD! Like the court is filling out a form and just went, “Eh, we’ll circle back on that.”

So what happened? Well, the filing doesn’t give us a dramatic backstory—no midnight arguments, no pet alligators in the bathtub, no secret underground fight club in the basement. Nope. Just the cold, hard facts of modern adulting gone wrong. At some point, Justin Shellby signed a lease to live at 808 N Pennsylvania. He moved in. He presumably paid rent for a while—because landlords tend to frown on immediate non-payment—but then, somewhere along the line, the checks stopped clearing. Or maybe they never got written. Either way, the balance grew to $1,656. That’s about three months of rent for a modest unit in Shawnee, give or take, depending on how many roommates you’re willing to tolerate (and whether the water heater still works).

According to the affidavit—fancy legal term for “sworn statement”—Ascool Properties (or Anthony Boaz, or the LLC-man hybrid, whatever) demanded payment. Justin said no. Or at least, he didn’t pay. And now, the landlord wants him out. Not just the money—though they do want the money—but the keys, the lease, the whole nine yards. They’re filing for “Forcible Entry and Detainer,” which sounds like a crime from a 19th-century Western but is actually just Oklahoma’s way of saying “eviction.” It’s a fast-track legal process designed to get landlords their property back quickly—no lengthy trials, no jury of peers, just a judge, a stack of paperwork, and someone’s life potentially uprooted.

Now, why are they in court? Let’s break it down like we’re explaining it to a very confused friend at a bar. The landlord isn’t suing for breach of contract, defamation, or stealing the good avocado toast recipe. They’re using a specific legal tool called a “forcible entry and detainer” action, which in Oklahoma is basically the legal equivalent of a “you had one job” text message. The job? Pay rent and don’t wreck the place. Justin allegedly failed at the first part and possibly the second (again, $2 in damages—was there a scratch on the baseboard? Did he use the wrong kind of toilet paper?). So now, the court is being asked to do two things: 1) give the landlord back possession of the property, and 2) order Justin to pay the $1,656 he owes. There’s also a vague mention of “costs of the action, including attorney’s fees,” which could mean Anthony Boaz is billing his own LLC for his time, which would be like paying yourself in Monopoly money but somehow still counting it on taxes.

And what do they want? Well, the monetary demand is clear: $1,656. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, no. You could buy a slightly used Honda Civic for that. Or a really nice engagement ring if you’re not picky about carats. But for a month-to-month tenant in Shawnee? That’s real money. That’s groceries, car repairs, maybe even a few therapy sessions after getting served with an eviction notice. And while the landlord is also seeking “injunctive relief”—legalese for “make this person leave”—they’re not asking for a jury trial, which tells us they’d rather just get this over with than turn it into a spectacle. Smart move. Because if this goes to trial, we might find out whether the $2 in damages was from a hole in the drywall… or from Justin’s emotional support raccoon.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this whole thing isn’t the amount. It’s not even the fact that a man might get evicted over what, in some cities, wouldn’t even cover a security deposit. No, the real comedy gold is in the details—or rather, the lack of them. We don’t know why Justin stopped paying. Did he lose his job? Was there a misunderstanding about the due date? Did he think “pay when convenient” was a clause in the lease? We don’t know if the $2 in damages is from a broken light switch or a full-on hole in the wall shaped like a boot. We don’t know if Anthony Boaz and Justin ever met in person, or if this is all happening through passive-aggressive text messages and certified mail. And we definitely don’t know why the damages are listed as “$2 or TBD,” like this is a pop quiz and the landlord is still grading it.

But here’s what we do know: this is the kind of case that doesn’t make headlines. It doesn’t go viral. It’s not the subject of a Netflix docuseries. But for Justin Shellby, it could mean the difference between stability and scrambling for a new place, between credit score survival and a mark that follows him for years. And for Ascool Properties? It’s about protecting their investment—however small. Still, there’s something almost Shakespearean in the tragedy of it all: a man, a house, and $1,656 standing between them like a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, but with more paperwork and fewer poison vials.

We’re not rooting for anyone to lose their home. But if we’re being honest? We’re kind of rooting for someone—anyone—to just pay the $2 and have a conversation. Because at the end of the day, this isn’t about legal strategy or property rights. It’s about people. And sometimes, the most dramatic court cases are the ones that remind us how thin the line is between “making rent” and “getting served by the sheriff.” Stay tuned, Shawnee. Court’s in session April 7. Bring snacks.