Red Carpet Village Apts. v. Michael Tow

Let’s get one thing straight: this case is not about murder. It’s not about embezzlement. It’s not even about who stole the last donut from the office break room (though honestly, that might’ve been more dramatic). No, this is about a man, an apartment, and $108 in court costs—specifically, his refusal to pay them after flat-out ignoring eviction notices like they were spam mail. That’s right: someone went to court, got booted from their apartment, and still thought the bill for showing up was optional. Welcome to Red Carpet Village Apts. v. Michael Tow, where the stakes are low, the drama is high, and the lesson is clear: never underestimate the power of a passive-aggressive summons.

So who are we talking about here? On one side, we’ve got Red Carpet Village Apts.—a modest rental complex in Fairview, Oklahoma, which, despite the name, appears to offer neither red carpets nor valets. Just basic apartment living in Major County, population: not enough to make headlines unless someone refuses to leave their studio over $108. And then there’s Michael Tow, tenant of Apartment 1 at 610 W. Beck Street, who, based on the filing, seems to have treated his lease like a timeshare agreement: signed with enthusiasm, abandoned with zero regard for consequences. There’s no love story here, no tragic backstory, no twist where he was secretly the landlord’s long-lost son. Just a landlord and a tenant who stopped paying rent, stopped communicating, and somehow believed he could ghost both the apartment and the legal system.

Now, let’s walk through what actually happened—or at least, what the affidavit wants us to believe. At some point, Michael Tow rented Apartment 1 from Red Carpet Village. Standard stuff. But then, like so many reality TV villains, he stopped doing the thing he was supposed to do: paying rent. The affidavit doesn’t specify how much rent he owed—just that he owed some, and that there were also damages to the premises. So, not only did he stop paying, but he may have left the place in such a state that the landlord felt the need to tack on repair costs. Was there a hole in the wall? A suspicious stain on the carpet? Did he leave behind a shrine to expired milk? We don’t know. But we do know the landlord demanded payment, and Michael Tow said, in the most silent way possible, “Nope.” Not with words. Not with a counteroffer. Just… nothing. Radio silence. The kind of silence that makes clerks sigh and judges roll their eyes.

So Red Carpet Village did what any reasonable landlord does when faced with a rent-free tenant who treats eviction like a suggestion: they filed for possession. In Oklahoma small claims court, this is known as a forcible entry and detainer action—fancy legal speak for “get out, we asked nicely.” The affidavit, signed by someone named Karen Alburger (possibly property manager, possibly notary, possibly both), lays it out: Tow is wrongfully in possession of the premises, has been demanded to vacate, and has refused. The landlord isn’t asking for a jury trial—probably because they don’t want to waste more time on this—and instead wants immediate possession of the apartment and, oh yeah, $108 in court costs. That’s it. No six-figure damages. No emotional distress claims. Just $108. For context, that’s less than a night at a mid-tier hotel. Less than a decent smartphone. Less than what you’d spend on car repairs if you backed into a dumpster while fleeing the scene of a failed relationship. But no—Michael Tow would rather fight the principle of it than just hand over the cash and walk away.

And that brings us to why they’re in court. Legally speaking, Red Carpet Village is making two claims. First: possession of real property. That means, “This apartment is ours, he’s not paying, and he needs to leave.” Second: possession of personal property—which, in this case, seems to be a bit of a misfire. The description just says “610 W Beck Apt 1,” which is… the apartment itself? That’s real property, not personal. Maybe it’s a clerical error. Maybe someone copied the wrong form. But either way, the core issue is clear: Michael Tow overstayed his welcome, and now the landlord wants the courts to kick him out—literally. The legal system exists, in part, to prevent landlords from hiring goons with baseball bats to drag tenants into the street (though, honestly, at this point, that might’ve been faster). So instead, we get a summons, a hearing date, and the solemn promise of a writ of assistance—which sounds like a motivational poster but is actually a court order telling the sheriff to show up and say, “Time’s up, pal. Grab your stuff.”

As for what they want—well, the demand is specific: $108 in court costs and possession of the apartment. No punitive damages. No attorney fees listed. Just the bare minimum to cover the filing. Is $108 a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, it’s a rounding error. But in the economy of petty grievances, it’s a statement. This isn’t really about the money—it’s about the disrespect. The landlord didn’t sue for thousands. They didn’t hire a high-powered attorney. They went the small claims route, which means they’re willing to argue this in front of a judge without all the legal fanfare. And yet, Michael Tow didn’t even show up to defend himself. Or at least, that’s what the filing suggests—he refused to vacate, refused to pay, and now faces a default judgment if he doesn’t appear by May 1, 2026. That’s the nuclear option: the court rules against you because you didn’t bother to show up. It’s like getting a parking ticket, ignoring it, and then being surprised when they tow your car.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this isn’t the $108. It’s not even the clerical confusion around “personal property.” It’s the sheer audacity of thinking you can just… stay. That you can stop paying rent, ignore legal notices, and somehow expect to keep living in a building owned by someone else. This isn’t squatter’s rights. This isn’t a protest against capitalism. This is just laziness with a side of entitlement. And yet—look, we’ve all been there. Maybe not this there, but the general vicinity. That moment when you realize you’re late on a bill, and instead of fixing it, you pretend it doesn’t exist. But most of us don’t test it against the full force of civil procedure.

Are we rooting for the landlord? Sure, mildly. They’re just trying to run a business. Are we low-key impressed by Michael Tow’s commitment to doing nothing? Absolutely. That takes a special kind of confidence. But mostly, we’re just here for the spectacle. Because in a world full of true crime, corruption, and global chaos, sometimes it’s refreshing to remember that the legal system still has time for the little things. Like making sure someone pays $108 and stops treating an apartment like a permanent Airbnb scam.

So tune in May 1, when the Major County Courthouse becomes the stage for this high-stakes showdown. Will Michael Tow show up with a check and an apology? Will he bring a lawyer and argue that the court costs violate his constitutional right to ignore paperwork? Or will he simply… not show up, forcing the sheriff to escort him out while Karen Alburger watches from the parking lot, sipping a lukewarm coffee and muttering, “I told him”? Only time will tell. But one thing’s for sure: in the pantheon of petty civil disputes, this one’s a steal.