Excerpt. Full text at http://www.kristinariggle.net/short/deranged.asp
We called him Tony Deranged.
"I used to be ranged," he'd say, grinning through his red Brillo pad beard, and gripping his longneck bottle. "Now I'm DE-ranged." He would always squeal the "DE" like the "Yee" in "Yeehaw."
He was in my tavern every night, sitting across the bar from me like a patient across a doctor's desk. Tony Deranged worked at the scrapyard and shouted his conversations. He told me once that all that scrap metal crashing was "noisy as the Devil's New Year's Eve" and he'd been going deaf for years, a decibel at a time.