HIGHWAY 75, LL.C. v. DARRYL W KIRBY AND ANY AND ALL OTHER OCCUPANTS

Let’s get one thing straight: in the grand tradition of American civil court drama, few things are more gloriously petty than a landlord suing a tenant for $1,368 and the sheer audacity of not moving out. But in Sapulpa, Oklahoma—home of quiet streets, modest apartment complexes, and apparently high-stakes showdowns over unpaid rent—we have a five-alarm eviction fire. A Tulsa-based LLC is demanding not just their money, but the immediate removal of Darryl W. Kirby and any and all other occupants, which, let’s be honest, sounds less like a legal summons and more like the opening line of a low-budget action thriller. “Darryl W. Kirby and Any and All Other Occupants” should be the name of a garage band or a D&D adventuring party, not the defendant in a Creek County eviction case. But here we are.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Highway 75, LL.C.—a name that sounds like a forgotten alt-rock band from the early 2000s but is, in fact, a business entity that owns and operates Timbers Apartments in Sapulpa. They’re represented by Nathan Mlner, a lawyer with a name that sounds like a minor villain from a sci-fi serial, but who, according to his bar number (CBA #30176), is very much real and very much ready to serve papers. On the other side is Darryl W. Kirby, a man whose only known address is Apartment #2105 at 1283 S Cheyenne Road, and who, based on this filing, has apparently decided that paying rent is more of a suggestion than a requirement. The two parties were bound by the sacred and ancient tenant-landlord compact: you live here, you pay us. Simple. Beautiful. Time-tested. And yet, somewhere along the way, Darryl decided to treat that agreement like a library book past due—just keep it, ignore the fines, and hope no one comes knocking. Spoiler: someone came knocking. And not just with a reminder email—this was a full legal summons, complete with notary seals, sworn affidavits, and the ominous phrase “writ of assistance,” which sounds like something a wizard would use to banish a demon, but in this case just means the sheriff will carry you out like last week’s trash.

So what happened? Well, according to the filing—sworn under oath by Mr. Mlner, attorney for the plaintiff—Darryl W. Kirby owes $1,368. That’s not a typo. One thousand three hundred sixty-eight dollars. For both rent and damages to the premises. Now, we don’t know exactly what kind of damage we’re talking about here—did he repaint the walls neon green? Install a hot tub in the bedroom? Host a mosh pit that collapsed the drywall? The filing is silent on the specifics, which means we’re left to imagine the worst. Maybe he turned Apartment #2105 into a personal recording studio for his spoken-word poetry about capitalism. Maybe he used the bathtub as a fish tank for a pet turtle named Greg. Or maybe, and this is just a theory, he just didn’t pay the rent and left the place a little worse for wear—like the rest of us do after a few years of microwave meals and questionable life choices. Whatever the case, Highway 75, LL.C. sent a demand. Darryl said no. Or maybe he said nothing at all. Either way, the money didn’t appear, and the keys didn’t get handed over. So the landlord did what any modern feudal overlord would do: they filed a “Forcible Entry and Detainer” action. That’s legalese for “get out, we’re taking the place back,” and it’s the go-to legal tool for evictions in Oklahoma. It’s fast, it’s blunt, and it skips the whole “why don’t we talk this out?” phase.

Now, why are they in court? Let’s break it down like we’re explaining it to a jury of sleep-deprived roommates. Highway 75, LL.C. is claiming that Darryl is in “wrongful possession” of the property. That doesn’t mean he broke in with a crowbar and a ski mask—it just means he’s staying there after his right to stay has ended, whether because he stopped paying or because the lease expired. In Oklahoma, if you don’t pay your rent, your landlord doesn’t have to wait around with a sad face and a stack of late notices. They can file this specific type of lawsuit to get you out fast. No jury. No lengthy trial. Just a judge deciding: did you pay? No? Out you go. And if there’s money owed, the court can award that too. It’s like the legal equivalent of a pop quiz you didn’t study for—sudden, stressful, and the outcome is rarely in your favor.

And what do they want? Well, first and foremost, they want Darryl and “any and all other occupants” (again, sounding like a cult or a particularly intense book club) to vacate the premises. That’s the “injunctive relief” part—fancy talk for “make this person leave.” They also want the $1,368. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s pocket change. You could buy a used car for that. Or a really nice couch. Or, if you’re Darryl, maybe six months of rent somewhere else. But for a landlord managing a complex, $1,368 is three or four months of lost income on one unit. Multiply that by a few deadbeats and suddenly you’re not covering your property taxes. So while it’s not huge money, it’s not nothing. And let’s not forget: they’re also asking for attorney’s fees and court costs, which means Darryl could end up owing even more if he doesn’t show up or loses. The hearing was set for March 31, 2026—just two weeks after the filing—because Oklahoma law moves fast when it comes to kicking people out. No time for negotiations. No grace period. Just: pay up or pack up.

Now, here’s our take. The most absurd part of this case isn’t the amount. It’s not even the dramatic phrasing of “any and all other occupants,” though we’d love to meet these mystery roommates—did Darryl turn Apartment #2105 into a commune? A speakeasy? A shelter for escaped zoo animals? No, the real absurdity is how normal this all is. This is not a story of fraud, or violence, or even epic betrayal. This is a story about a man who didn’t pay his rent, and a company that responded with the full force of the legal system. And that’s the quiet tragedy of American housing: a few hundred dollars in arrears can trigger a machine designed to remove you from your home with terrifying efficiency. Is Darryl a deadbeat? Maybe. Did he damage the apartment? Possibly. But we also live in a world where medical bills, car repairs, or a single missed paycheck can send someone spiraling into eviction court. And while we’re not here to excuse non-payment, we can’t help but wonder: what happened in Darryl’s life that led to this moment? Was he unemployed? Sick? Just plain stubborn? The filing doesn’t say. It never does. These cases are stripped of context, reduced to dollar amounts and property descriptions. But behind every “wrongful possession” is a human story—sometimes one of irresponsibility, sometimes one of desperation.

Do we root for the landlord to get their property back? Sure. They own it. That’s the deal. But do we also feel a twinge of sympathy for Darryl, facing a court date that could end with him and “any and all other occupants” being escorted out by the sheriff? Absolutely. Because in the end, this isn’t just about $1,368. It’s about stability, dignity, and the thin line between keeping a roof over your head and becoming a line item in a legal petition. So while we laugh at the drama—because let’s be real, “any and all other occupants” is comedy gold—we also remember: this could happen to any of us. And the next time you get a late notice, maybe don’t ignore it. Unless you’re ready to become a defendant in a Creek County eviction saga. And really, who has the time?