Chris Gardner DBA monkey time rupark v. Aladino & Eddie Walker

Let’s just say it straight: a landlord got locked out of his own rental property — by his tenant. Not metaphorically. Not through some shady lease loophole. We’re talking full-on, padlock-on-the-door, “you shall not pass” energy — except instead of Gandalf, it’s a guy named Aladino Walker, possibly backed by his partner Eddie, guarding a mobile home park in rural Oklahoma like it’s Helm’s Deep. And the landlord? Chris Gardner, who runs something called Monkey Time RuPark — yes, that’s a business name, allegedly — is now suing to get back control of a piece of land he claims is his, while also trying to figure out how he ended up on the wrong side of his own eviction.

Now, before you assume this is some fever-dream real estate showdown involving actual monkeys (we wish), let’s untangle this circus. Chris Gardner, operating under the enigmatic moniker “DBA Monkey Time RuPark” — which sounds less like a legal entity and more like a TikTok influencer’s side hustle — owns or manages a mobile home lot in Bernice, Oklahoma. That’s not a typo — Bernice. Population: too small to make this kind of drama worth it, probably. The property in question is Lot 3 at 54140 E Highway 85A, a scenic stretch of nowhere where the wind whistles through trailer skirting and disputes are settled in small claims court, not on Judge Judy. This is where Aladino and Eddie Walker set up shop — presumably living in a mobile home on Gardner’s land, paying rent (or not), and, at some point, deciding they didn’t feel like leaving.

According to the court filing — an “Entry and Detainer Affidavit,” which is legalese for “get off my lawn, legally” — Gardner claims the Walkers are wrongfully in possession of the property. That’s the legal version of saying, “They’re still here, and I want them gone.” But here’s where it gets weird: the document says the amount owed for rent is $0. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Same for damages — also $0. So why is Chris Gardner dragging Aladino and Eddie into court if no money’s technically owed? Well, because he wants his property back — and fast — and the legal system has a form for that, even when the balance sheet looks like a typo.

The filing is sparse, almost suspiciously so. There’s no dramatic list of broken windows, unpaid utility bills, or feral goats running loose (though, again, Monkey Time RuPark leaves us wondering). Instead, it hinges on one core claim: possession. Gardner says he’s entitled to it, the Walkers are refusing to vacate, and he’s already demanded they leave. Cue the official court order: “You are hereby directed to relinquish immediately…” — which sounds like something a sheriff says before kicking down a door in a Western, except here it’s delivered in Delaware County, Oklahoma, with a hearing scheduled for April 13, 2024, at 2:20 p.m. sharp in Jay, OK. That’s small claims court time — not exactly Law & Order, but someone’s definitely bringing snacks.

Now, you might be thinking: “Wait, if no rent is owed, why can’t the Walkers just… stay?” Good question. In landlord-tenant law, even if rent is paid up, a lease can still expire. Or maybe there was no lease at all — just a handshake and a “you can park here for now” vibe, common in mobile home setups. But once the owner wants the land back, the tenant has to go — unless they’ve got a lease, or tenant rights, or a really good lawyer. And based on this filing, it seems the Walkers said, “Nah,” possibly locked the gate, and told Gardner to take a long walk down Highway 85A. Which brings us to the most delicious detail: Gardner may have been physically locked out. That’s not just a breach of contract — that’s a power move. Imagine showing up to repossess your own property and finding a chain and padlock installed by the people you’re trying to evict. That’s not just defiance. That’s style.

So what does Gardner want? Legally, it’s called “injunctive relief” — a fancy way of saying “make them stop doing that thing they’re doing.” In plain English: “Give me back my damn lot.” He’s not asking for money — at least not in this filing — but he does want a writ of assistance, which is basically a court-sanctioned eviction order. That means if the Walkers don’t show up to court or lose the case, the sheriff gets to come in and remove them, like a government-approved bouncer. There’s also a vague threat of judgment for “costs of the action,” which could include attorney fees — though Gardner’s represented by Milletia Small, who appears to be the filing attorney, not a big law firm. So we’re not talking six figures here. More like gas money and notary fees.

And the $50,000 question — is this a big deal? Well, not monetarily. There’s zero in damages claimed. But symbolically? Absolutely. For a small landowner in rural Oklahoma, a mobile home lot isn’t just real estate — it’s income, independence, and possibly retirement. Letting someone squat on it, especially after locking you out, sets a dangerous precedent. Next thing you know, the whole park turns into an anarchist commune run by people named Aladino. On the flip side, if the Walkers believed they had a right to stay — maybe they made improvements, maybe they thought they had a verbal agreement — then Gardner’s move looks less like justice and more like a strong-arm tactic disguised as legal procedure.

Our take? We’re equal parts baffled and weirdly inspired. The whole thing reads like a modern-day Green Acres episode directed by the Coen brothers. A man named Chris Gardner runs a business called Monkey Time RuPark — which, again, we have to assume is real, because Oklahoma courts don’t just make that up — and gets locked out by tenants who owe no rent but won’t leave. It’s absurd, it’s petty, and it’s 100% the kind of drama we live for. Is Monkey Time RuPark a sanctuary for escaped lab monkeys? A psychedelic retreat? A front for something weirder? We may never know. But we do know this: if Aladino and Eddie think they can just squat on a man’s land, rename it “Free Republic of Lot 3,” and defy the Oklahoma judicial system, they’ve got another thing coming. And if Chris Gardner thought slapping “DBA Monkey Time RuPark” on a legal document was a good idea, well… bless his chaotic little heart.

Bottom line: This isn’t about money. It’s about pride. It’s about who controls the gate. And honestly? We’re here for it. We just hope someone livestreams the sheriff’s arrival. And if there are monkeys? Even better.