Velocy Investments, LLC v. Greg Hanna

Let’s get one thing straight: this isn’t just a guy who didn’t pay his loan. This is a full-blown corporate game of financial hot potato, where a bank loans money, sells the debt like a used car, and then a debt collector shows up in court like, “Surprise! You owe us now,” all while hiring a law firm based in Wisconsin to sue a man in Oklahoma over $13,000. And no, Greg Hanna didn’t miss one payment—he missed all of them, apparently, because as far as the court filing is concerned, he ghosted the whole thing like it was a bad first date.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Velocy Investments, LLC—a name that sounds like a startup that sells overpriced electric scooters, but in reality, is a debt buyer. These are the folks who don’t lend money directly but instead swoop in after banks write off bad loans, buy them for pennies on the dollar, and then try to collect the full amount. It’s like buying a foreclosure house, then demanding the previous owner pay you rent for the last five years. Sleek, right? Velocy is represented by RAUSCH STURM LLP, a firm that proudly identifies itself in the filing as “Attorneys in the Practice of Debt Collection,” which is about as charming as a billboard that says “We Specialize in Lawsuits.”

On the other side: Greg Hanna. Just a regular guy, presumably. No law firm. No flashy title. Just a dude who, back in April 2023, took out a loan from Cross River Bank—yes, the same one that partners with fintech apps like Affirm and Klarna. You know, the “Buy Now, Pay Later” overlords who let you finance a $200 pair of noise-canceling earbuds over six months. Was this a personal loan? A payday loan? A “I-saw-an-ad-on-Instagram-and-now-I-owe-$13k” loan? The filing doesn’t say. But we do know Greg got some “valuable consideration,” which is legalese for “something he wanted,” and in exchange, signed a contract to pay it back.

Spoiler: he didn’t.

Somewhere between April 2023 and February 2026, Greg went full radio silence. No payments. No calls. No “Hey, I lost my job, can we work something out?” Just… nothing. And when that happens in the world of lending, the dominoes start falling. The loan defaults. The balance gets “accelerated,” which means the entire amount becomes due immediately—no more monthly installments, no grace period, just boom, pay up or else. Cross River Bank, probably tired of chasing Greg down, sold the debt to Velocy Investments, who then said, “Ah, a fresh victim,” and called their favorite Wisconsin-based debt law firm to file a lawsuit in Oklahoma County District Court.

And here we are.

Now, why are they in court? Legally speaking, Velocy is claiming breach of contract—a fancy way of saying, “You signed a deal, you didn’t hold up your end, so now we want the court to make you pay.” It’s not about fraud, it’s not about identity theft, it’s not even about a dispute over how much is owed. It’s literally: “He agreed to pay. He didn’t. We want the money.” The filing is so bare-bones it makes a IKEA instruction manual look verbose. Four paragraphs. That’s it. No dramatic backstory, no mention of hardship, no attempt to negotiate. Just: “He owes $13,273.96. We want it. Court, make it happen.”

Oh, and one more thing—they also want the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission to hand over Greg’s employment history. Which… okay? Why? Are they trying to figure out if he’s working under the table at a food truck? Is this a prelude to wage garnishment? The filing doesn’t explain, but it’s a little eerie—like the debt collector is doing a background check via subpoena. “We don’t just want your money, Greg… we want your entire work life.”

Now, what do they actually want? $13,273.96. That’s the number. Not $13,000. Not $13,274. No, it’s $13,273.96. The precision is almost comical—like they’re billing him down to the penny for late fees, interest, and the emotional toll of having to file this lawsuit. Is that a lot of money? Well, it’s not a Lamborghini, but it’s also not a Netflix subscription. It’s about what you’d pay for a used car, or a year of rent in a modest apartment, or 441 cups of overpriced coffee. For an individual, it’s a serious chunk of change. For a debt buyer? Probably chump change—but hey, when you’re in the business of buying defaulted loans for, say, $3,000 and suing for $13k, even a 50% success rate is pure profit. This isn’t about justice. This is about volume. This is about sending 10,000 letters, filing 500 lawsuits, and winning enough to make it all worth it.

And Greg? We don’t know his side. Did he lose his job? Was he hospitalized? Did he just decide, “Nah, I’m not paying this”? Maybe he didn’t even know Velocy owned the debt—because here’s the thing: when your loan gets sold, you don’t always get a clear heads-up. The bill might still say “Cross River Bank,” but the guy suing you is Velocy, represented by a firm in Wisconsin that specializes in debt collection. It’s like being sued by a ghost company through a law firm that doesn’t even have an office in your state. Confusing? Absolutely. Unfair? Maybe. But legal? Unfortunately, yes.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this whole thing isn’t that someone defaulted on a loan. People do that every day. It’s not even that a debt buyer is suing over it—those lawsuits happen constantly. No, the truly wild part is the distance—geographic, emotional, and corporate—between the original loan and this lawsuit. A guy in Oklahoma borrows money from a New Jersey-based bank (Cross River), the debt gets sold to a mystery LLC (Velocy), which hires a Wisconsin law firm to sue him in Oklahoma court, and they’re asking for his employment records like they’re building a dossier.

It’s like the financial version of a game of telephone: “Greg Hanna defaulted” becomes “We need his entire work history” somewhere along the chain, and no one stops to ask, “Wait, is this actually about helping people repay debt, or just about squeezing money out of anyone who can’t fight back?”

We’re not rooting for Greg because he dodged his responsibilities—because let’s be real, if he took the money and vanished, that’s on him. But we’re also not cheering for the debt collector who bought a defaulted loan for a fraction of its value and is now demanding every penny, plus interest, plus costs, plus Greg’s employment history. That’s not justice. That’s debt capitalism on autopilot.

If Greg shows up in court with a sob story and proof of hardship, maybe we’ll feel bad. If he shows up in a Rolex, denying he ever borrowed a dime, we’ll roll our eyes. But right now? This case is less about right and wrong and more about how broken the debt machine is—where people become numbers, loans become commodities, and a Wisconsin law firm can sue an Oklahoma man over a loan he took from a bank he probably only interacted with through an app.

And hey, Greg—if you’re out there reading this: maybe pay the $13k. Or at least get a lawyer. Because Velocy and their Wisconsin cavalry aren’t messing around. And if you don’t? Well, they might just find out how many W-2s you’ve filed since 2018.