You think you know pain? You’ve never met the BrutalMaster .

Washing is forbidden. Sanitizing is for the weak. This board cleanses you — through friction, through filth, through the slow realization that you’ll never slice anything pretty again.

Every morning, you kneel. You pour the gritty chai concentrate — no strainer, no mercy. The sludge settles into the wood’s fractures like confession. Then you chop. Onions? You’ll cry blood. Ginger? It bites back. Your knife isn’t a tool; it’s a plea.

“Taste the grind.”

Welcome to the kitchen of the damned. Your chai is dirty. Your cutting board is pain. And BrutalMaster? He never clocks out.