My current mess started the day I opened my email to find an unusual subject line in one of the headers.

    Your Payment to Middle Earth Has Been Accepted.

    Brutus, my purebred Labradoodle mutt, lifted his head from where he’d set it on my knee, his golden ears twitching.

    I thought the email must have been spam. This company’s marketing director was probably well paid for their creative clickbait, because I opened the email, finding an invoice with a recurring payment of $199 paid to a company called Middle Earth Inc.

    Sure enough, my bank account showed I’d been gouged not once but three times. How had I not noticed this? There was no way I could afford this while trying to start up my own business. Maybe this was just a weird name for some online service I’d ordered, the company that hosted my janky website for people hiring my freelance IT services, or some nerdy product that Lord of the Rings fans would enjoy.

    Was this a mistake related to butt dialing? Somehow, my best friend and roommate, a.k.a my dog, had once managed to purchase three television shows from my phone, so there was probably a rational, though infuriating, explanation.

    “Did you do this, Brutus?” I stroked his head.

    He nuzzled my hand affectionately. I put up with the excessive energy, chewed up furniture, barking at all hours, and other “evil” behaviors because he was an alpha who kept the neighbors’ cats from pooping in my garden and rabid squirrels from eating my strawberries. Brutus rarely bit people or killed small animals, and when he did, it really was my fault because he was bored.

    I navigated my email to see what I might have purchased so I could complain if it was a mistake. I found the first email.

    Welcome to Middle Earth. To take advantage of this exclusive offer, you will need to go to our website and book reservations for your date of arrival.

    I scratched my head, thinking that this must have been for some kind of fantasy-themed resort. Or a video game? I didn’t actually play video games, but my dog apparently did when I wasn’t in my home office. And quite honestly, I was procrastinating on responding to all the tedious emails I hadn’t yet gotten to because I was too busy fixing someone’s website after they’d broken it. A little Middle Earth sounded relaxing.

    I clicked through their interface, trying to figure out what it was. I paid monthly installments, and the fee wasn’t as high as someone might pay for a resort. It had to be a game, app, or program. Brutus set his chin on my desk, gazing up at the screen.

    The banner read: Step into Middle Earth where you can enjoy a relaxing puff of pipeweed with a wizard, a pint in the Shire, or an energizing walk through Rivendell. 

    I clicked on photos of picturesque landscapes and elegant castles that looked similar to the Lord of the Rings movies, but different enough I knew they weren’t from the films. It was more like what I had imagined while reading the books as a kid.

    A banner flashed across the bottom of the page. I assumed it was an advertisement. I read the words out loud to Brutus, “‘Do you crave power, lust for wealth, and know you’re meant to rule the world? Click here to learn more.’” I looked at him. “Should I click?” His tongue dangled out of his mouth, and he panted encouragingly.

    I clicked the button. It gave me choices to select. I started to suspect this was a “choose your own path” adventure game, but I wasn’t sure. Or some kind of personality test.

    The instructions said:

    Click all boxes that apply.

    Brutus wagged his tail excitedly. I thought about where I wished I was instead of working from home, trying to start my own business. Every time I hovered my cursor over a box, Brutus nudged my hand until I clicked each selection.

    Do you desire one ring to rule them all?

    Does necromancy for fun and profit sound like your cup of tea?

    Do you feel the need to raise Orcs and enslave all the races in Middle Earth to do your bidding?

    Have you ever thought carrying whips and swords while cloaking yourself in shadows, darkness, and flame sounds like a fashion statement you would be interested in?

    I clicked all of the boxes.

    Do you want to build your estate in a land where there are giant talking carnivorous spiders?

    I could have done without the spiders, but I checked it off anyway. Brutus liked to play with spiders, and I felt like I was answering for him as much as for myself.

    A separate window popped up on the computer.

    Great! Our recruiting agent will be right with you.

    My phone rang. The number wasn’t familiar. Hesitantly, I picked up the phone.

    “Hello, I am calling to schedule a meeting to discuss opportunities for the next immortal king of Mordor.” The woman’s voice was cheerful and professional.

    “Um. . . .” I said. This did sound like a legitimate phone call from the company I’d been navigating online. But it concerned me how they had gotten my phone number in addition to my email and bank account information. “I think some kind of mistake has been made.”

    “Did you click on the wrong job description?” the woman on the other end of the line asked. “That does happen on occasion. Everyone usually wants to be a wizard or an elf. We hardly ever get anyone who wants to be an Orc, Balrog, or Nazgul.”

    Brutus tried climbing onto my lap and managed to stick his wet nose against my cheek as he nudged his face between mine and the phone. I stood and snapped my fingers, pointing to the floor before returning my attention to the phone conversation.

    “I don’t not want to be a Balrog.” Perhaps in my darkest fantasies, I had entertained the notion of being a dark Maiar full of wickedness who ruled the land. But that wasn’t the point. “I hit the button on purpose, but that isn’t actually what I was hoping to talk to you about.” It was serendipitous I had some kind of customer service representative online to make sure I stopped paying these exorbitant fees.

    “Can I ask for your name and number in case we get disconnected?” she asked.

    I was leery about giving her my information. This company already had so much dirt on me. Reluctantly, I gave my number.

    The service representative managed to keep her tone chipper yet serious. “Tell me about your qualifications, sir. Do you have any experience with annihilation? Destruction of mankind?”

    Brutus barked and chased his tail. I shushed him, but he growled at me. At me. Sure, he could be a terror to the neighbors, cats, and the mailman, but he had never taken that tone with me. 

    The woman on the phone must have mistaken his growling for my answer. “Very good, sir,” she said. “I can see you’re a vicious monster—just what we’re looking for. We have three openings for Balrogs and one for Sauron. Should I start with that job description?”

    “What do you mean by ‘job description’? Is this for a theme park? Or is it for some kind of troll who pretends to be a character from the Tolkien mythos?”

    “No, not a troll. That is a completely separate job.” She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Though, just between you and me, the benefits of that job aren’t nearly as good as this one.”

    “Oh.” I remembered there were trolls in Tolkien’s world as well. Perhaps that hadn’t been the most apt description.

    The service representative read off a list of details I remembered from my days reading the books. My gaze flickered to my dog, who guiltily hunkered in the corner. I was now more certain than ever that he had dialed some kind of weird subscription from my phone.

    “How does all that sound?” the receptionist asked.

    “Fine, I guess.” I tapped my desk anxiously. “But I don’t actually understand what this is all about. What is this service that I’m paying for?”

    “We’re an employment portal like Monster—but not everyone is a monster. Some people are Hobbits or Ents or Dwarves. Only some people are monsters. Like you. Are you ready to begin?”

    I’d heard of Monster, and I had used LinkedIn for my last boring corporate job, but this was a bit much. “I’m not sure this service—whatever it is you’re offering—is right for me. I want my money back.”

    “We have a strict cancellation policy.”

    Something crackled behind me. Between my bookcase and the doorway, a glowing portal ringed with plasma showed a dark and gloomy world with a medieval castle and fires burning everywhere. 

    I stared at the portal in awe.

    The service representative’s voice echoed from the portal. “Come join us in Middle Earth where your dream job awaits.”

    My dog’s ears perked up. I hesitated, thinking about the normal life I would be leaving behind. Brutus didn’t hesitate.

    He jumped through the portal, and that’s how he became the next Sauron in Mordor—the lucky dog. I was left behind in this realm, stuck paying a monthly recurring fee. Why do I continue to pay it? He’s still my best friend. I might be an evil runner-up for a Balrog, but that doesn’t mean I would push him into a pit of hot lava like some Hobbits I know.

    Plus, he’s seventy in dog years. He’ll retire eventually—and when he does, I’m going to become the next bad-ass, evil incarnate of the realm.