In Velázquez's literature everything is twisted. If there is gore, this is pink. If there is humor, this is crazy. If there is love, this is a pretext for the abyss. But the existence of his characters is not an inextricable eccentricity, they are ordinary beings who are drawn into infamy by the so irresistible fatal attraction, as can happen to any of us.

Fried Chicken Dispatcher, Carlos Velázquez's fifth book of stories, takes us through a series of protagonists and environments where lies and tricks; cross-dressing and diphomania; delirium and disease; ruin and emotional disasters, through its unmistakable caustic, sonorous and swift prose, configure a biting universe that ends up being a ruthless mirror in which even the most skeptical reader will be seduced and bewitched.

A Mexican private detective receives the unprecedented charge of unmasking a false Paul McCartney, a cinephile and sensitive godin receives a karmic reversal of his long career as a heartbreaker, a director of xenophobic orchestras with his own people will bring the community to the brink of madness from Tatahuila for his conflicts with authority, a transvestite will see his life ruined from a rectal ulcer that will lead him to the path of pseudo-evangelical redemption and a fried chicken dispatcher drags a dispute with his boss to a pendulum of revenge and rematches where the body itself will be used as the main battlefield.

In these five stories, Velázquez manages to his entire pleasure the evolution of these quasi-fantastic beings of so dispossessed, with a masterful handling of the structure and form that reveres the great masters of the genre. Never leaving a sense of humor as a spearhead, he leads the plots from a charming and enveloping premise, where everyone will laugh out loud.