giraffes in Atlanta

It was about that time that the car died.  About the time it always dies, with that sad choke cough death on the big biggest hill in old confound Oakmont Heights.  The tragedy of my choking car was out-done quickly by the sliding of my car backwards.  Snowy roads, you see.  A dropping, stomach-in-the-toes feeling and on down Oakmont drive and clappering with all magic manner of braking devices and that was about the time. 
Old croakity Man Charles Rivers munching lawn chair sittering and relazying all front yarded as I scream by backwards spinning now sidelong down the street.  And the oddness of the croakity old man sitting in the yard among the falling snow not nearly compared to the gross dementia of loosing all grip of control. 
And it was about that time that I saw all of them.  Marching across roaded street with all the plumage and festoonage of the great American Brass, with silver teeth braying to the snow and a great ear of deep knowledge waggled to the sinister wind of winter.  All of us in the car, me and Bets albeit, couldn't believe the strange magic of the moment.  Whole large Serengeti Giraffes nosing the winter breeze and airily stepping all spaggetti legged across our fragment of neighborhood, across this doomsday of suburban sprawling destiny of crying families and sad mothers and lost milk money. 
"What in great earth's milky heart....?"  Bets looked stupid trailing a sentence out the winter window and tires squeeked for traction.  Rolling, spintwisting into the jungle of legged tangle.  Then she screamed, O Bets, that hugest of the giraffe war beasts had poked a long toothed face right through that back window.  The manners of Oakmont looks savagely cold I wanted to say but instead pumped the brake like I wanted it to bring water, like I was sewing father time a sweater and the brakes worked this time and bit of huge gangle-furred giraffe-neck all matted in this window all bleeding matted fur and braying into poor Bets' ear.  And to look the thing in the face seemed the most formidible of crimes; the terror of feeling is eye glop splatter across the neck as it shook itself and looked bloodshot into the heart of my fearful heart and splittle flopped tounge splashed all over the car was only the most vile and horrible experience of my life. 
So with promptness, the car revives, one key twist to life all the roaring lionlife of its previous years and start a careen up the Oakmont hill.  Lunatic Giraffe in his long-headed force roared, car and driver and Bets pull away and the neck slips back out the window only dropping eyefulls of fierce glares into the rearview. 
Bets only and always drinks the hot chocolate after the day of officing and now the girl looked into her cup and shuddered, doomsday all but forgotten. 
"Without marshmallows, the chocolate is rather vulgar plain," the girl gripes into my kitchen.  Where am I?  Looking out from the deck as a wallococious herd of great spotted beasts move across lawn and fence, playhouse and scrub oak and pluck a tiny precious poor child from the snowangel yard two houses over.  And the tiny scream was quick click clack munched all away by big plant eating teeth.  I could barely believe that without marshmallows, hot chocolate is really bland.